And the Lost Return, Changed
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: [AU where Moriarty didn't return and Sherlock survived his six month mission.] He returns to London to find the Watsons knee deep in nappies and a newborn. But something's different; something's changed. Maybe he was right after all: John and Mary don't need him when they've got a real baby. And anyway, Sherlock's not the same person he was before he left, either. At all.
1. Prologue

**And the Lost Return Changed**

Sherlock hadn't expected to come back.

To be fair, he wasn't unscathed and he was certainly scarred in more ways than he cared to even ascertain let alone admit, but he hadn't expected to come back at all.

"Little brother."

Sherlock wasn't even sure he was glaring as he glanced at his brother from the side, reaching for the car door to brace himself. "Mycroft."

"Welcome back."

Sherlock grunted softly, propping himself with either of the crutches. "Not officially."

"Perhaps not."

Sherlock sighed, meeting Mycroft's gaze for only the tiniest moment. "Well, go on, then. Tell me how horrible I look; I know you're dying to." He looked back down at the crutches, at the way his trousers crumbled and rumpled due to the bulky cast on his right leg. "Just as much as I'm dying to say that you were wrong about my chances of survival." He tightened his grip on the crutches and limped towards the door.

"For once, Sherlock, although you may find this hard to believe, I'm glad to have been wrong." Mycroft opened the door, stepping to the side.

"Oh, save the sentiment, Mycroft. You know how it turns my stomach this early in the morning."

"Yes. Well."

Sherlock painstakingly made his way upstairs, dogged by Mycroft for his every step. The broken tibia was irritating at best and gut-wrenching at most, but the cracked ribs and the nearly healed fractured collarbone did nothing to help ease his level of discomfort. He wasn't about to get started on the number of black and purple colorations mottled nearly _every_ inch of his skin, or the gashes, stitches, and half-healed nicks and scrapes that still stung with the water from the hot showers that he had only just gotten reacquainted with.

"Do you have an estimate until the rest of your... mismatched group of friends becomes privy to your return?" Mycroft asked delicately.

Sherlock gingerly sank onto the mattress with a sigh, dropping the crutches onto the foot of the bed. "Preferably sometime after I stop looking like a skeleton beaten half to... re-death." Mycroft raised his eyebrows; Sherlock scowled. "You know what I mean. Going back looking like this isn't going to soothe anyone's nerves. Besides, they thought I was just on exile, bored out of my mind and doing a little undercover work. They still don't know it was meant to be suicide."

"True," Mycroft mused. "Get some rest, Sherlock."

"Rest?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows at the choice word. "Don't be ridiculous." He turned over to face the wall, effectively ending the conversation. He hadn't been able to rest since three weeks into the exile, more or less. The nightmares had begun even earlier. Those had started the first week.

He didn't care to talk about it.

He closed his eyes as Mycroft exited the room, leaving silence behind. Sherlock wasn't particularly tired, nor did he think he would be able to sleep, but the plane ride had been long and tedious, and the altitude had wreaked havoc on just about every part of him. He was back in London now, though, finally. Maybe he'd been able to relax.

As if.

* * *

**A/N: Just what has Sherlock been up to... I was prompted by a person who wishes to remain anonymous, but do take note that the plot is product of another's genius. I _love_ where the prompted plot is going to go, so I accepted the request and am writing the story, hopefully to said person's delight and standards. I hope I'm doing this idea justice!**

**Is it a sickfic? Yes... and no. Is it a dark fic? It's middling, but it will have its moments. Is it character development centic? Yes. There is going to be a _lot_ of character development (or deconstruction... just saying). It's emotional, it's angsty, it's Sherlock-centric. The premise is a mystery, but I promise - without giving away plot points - that it is a beautiful idea (if I can pull it off!). Hopefully it piques some interest!**

**Chapter One coming soon - this is just the prologue. Chapters will be longer.  
****I do not own _Sherlock_. Thanks for reading; stay tuned!**


	2. John's Domesticity

The humidity of August in London swept through his hair as a futile breeze rustled his curls into his face. He breathed in, and then out, feeling all too out of breath; it was a sensation familiar to him, one of never being able to breathe properly after events that had taken place prior his exile. It was as if all the oxygen had been sucked from of the air, from the time that the first innocent had been murdered in his undercover work.

August in London didn't help, but Sherlock wasn't lamenting it. He had missed the scents of his town around him, whipping his hair into his face and his coat up around his calves. London was home, all of its surroundings his family.

Sherlock tilted his head slightly, watching John pace by the front window. The darkness outside John's home gave him enough cover that he wouldn't be seen unless he stepped under the bowl of light cast onto the pavement by the street lamp. He could observe without being observed himself.

He watched as Mary joined John in the sitting room. She curled her hand around his shoulder loosely, stretching over to kiss him. Sherlock couldn't tell, but he suspected that John might have been smiling. Mary stepped away and out of view of the window, vanishing from Sherlock's line of sight for a few moments.

When she came back, she had a child in her arms.

Sherlock smiled despite himself. She was about five months, if Sherlock guessed correctly. He hadn't yet asked Mycroft when she had been born. She clutched a pale yellow dog with long floppy ears in her arms, which John reached for one of the ears to wiggle it in her face.

John and Mary's happiness exuded without Sherlock needing to be closer. He couldn't see their smiles, but he knew they were there. He couldn't hear the laughter, but he knew it was genuine. Compared to the trials that both of the Watsons had gone through regarding Mary's unknown past, Sherlock was glad to see them happy. He was glad that John hadn't stepped back into a touch-and-go phase like the one he had apparently gone through after the faked suicide. He had Mary; he had their daughter.

Sherlock hadn't been lying. They didn't need him around with a baby. Family was a thing that made John happy, and friends were of less importance. Sherlock was fine with that. He just wanted John to have whatever made him happy, and he didn't want to disturb that.

The sentimental part of his mind longed to go see all three of them.

He didn't, though, staying put on the sidewalk with his hands in his pockets while he leaned on the tree trunk for support. He didn't know exactly what to say. Being uncertain was one of the things he loathed the most; being scared was another, and he was both as he watched the Watson family carrying on without him.

He narrowed his eyes as the wind kicked up another blast of summer heat into his face.

* * *

Sherlock hesitated with his finger over the mousepad of the laptop. He tugged at the skin of his lip between his teeth, straightened his spine, and double clicked the icon on his desktop. He sat perfectly still, aware that he was holding his breath and that it didn't help the churning feeling in his stomach, for six seconds, seven seconds... eight... nine...

The photo on his browser expanded and John's face filled the screen.

_"Sherlock?"_

Sherlock let out the breath he was holding and tilted the screen, eyeing his own photo in the bottom corner. "John," he greeted, offering a smile at the currently dumbfounded expression his friend was wearing over their video chat. "Long time no see."

John opened his mouth and closed it again.

Sherlock smiled wryly, fingering the microphone on his headset. "Rendered speechless again? I'm sorry about this, I wasn't sure how to tell you. Calling seemed impersonal and showing up uninvited didn't go so well the last time, so..."

John sat up suddenly, leaning closer into frame. _"I thought you couldn't contact us, I thought... wait, are you back?"_

Sherlock nodded. "Nearly."

_"_How_?"_ John demanded. _"Mycroft said, you both said... I thought you were supposed to stay away, indefinitely."_

Sherlock's eyes widened in mocking surprise. "You'd think you weren't happy to see me, John."

John frowned. _"Come off it, you know I am. I'm just... in shock, I guess. Wow. Why don't you come over? Mary'd love to see you, and you haven't even met Lily... uh, our daughter."_

"I know." Sherlock winced as his ribs twinged in protest of the way he was sitting. "But I'm on house arrest. I got, uh, I ran into a little trouble abroad so I'm still... healing up."

John's eyebrows hitched up. _"Healing up?"_ He sighed. _"What did you do?"_

"This and that." He reached for the tin of biscuits, breaking off a mouthful to excuse himself from continuing the thought.

_"You can't even go on an exile without trying to get yourself killed, can you?"_

Now it was Sherlock's turn to raise his eyebrows. If only John knew. "Oh, you know me," he said instead, brushing crumbs from his shirt. "I don't like to be bored."

John laughed; a sound Sherlock remembered well, giddy and wonderful and impossible to not grin in response to. He had _missed_ John, desperately even. _"God, I can't believe it's been, what, seven months?"_

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "But it's gone by quickly for you, hasn't it? Your daughter, she's five months old now. That has to keep you busy."

_"In the blink of an eye."_ John slumped back into his chair. _"She's growing up so fast, I can't even believe it." _He perked up. _"D'you want to see her? She's asleep, but I can go get her, you can see her at least. Are you not allowed visitors, I could come over?"_

It was easier to lie. He'd gotten good at it lately, but lying to John twinged a small part of himself into feeling guilty about it. Being around John tended to make him liable to feel such things, guilt or sadness or even longing for companionship. "No," he said slowly, inventing the half truth on the spot. "Mycroft's still working out some of the finer details of my return and, like I said, I'm still a bit shaky on my feet."

_"That doesn't make me feel any better."_

"I've been under the care of a private doctor, if that helps. I'm not doing it myself, not like that time with my dislocated shoulder."

_"Ugh."_ John made a face. _"Don't remind me, I could have killed you for that. I was _right_ there, I could have done it."_

"I was perfectly capable." Sherlock's fingers stilled over the biscuits. His stomach was starting to rebel on the food. He didn't think his medication helped it, although he was aware his nausea wasn't just from pain killers. He folded his hands on the table. "But I would like to, uh... meet Lily, if you could introduce us over this." He waved his hand vaguely at the laptop.

_"Yeah, sure. Hang on a sec, let me get her."_

Sherlock sighed and sank back in his chair, wincing at the sharp spike of pain that shook through his spine. He curled his shoulders in slightly, propping his elbow on the table and his head on his hand. He was tired. He'd tried to sleep last night, and spent most of it staring into the darkness of the room and watching events play out beneath his eyelids. He wanted to talk to John; he wanted to go to sleep. Only one was likely, only one was plausible, so he just stayed put.

_"Here she is."_

Sherlock sat up quickly, biting the inside of his cheek against the moan that threatened to disclose his pain. His grimace gave way to a smile quickly, though; John was holding Lily and now that Sherlock was close up, the overwhelming sense of innocent beauty washed over him. He wasn't particularly a person who liked children, but he didn't dislike them, either. He wouldn't call himself paternal... except he was, quite quickly, as he leaned closer to the laptop and the image of the sleeping infant.

_"You're in for it now, Sherlock." _John was grinning widely. His hair was getting more gray by the day, Sherlock thought, but his smile never ceased to be brighter. But then Sherlock remembered that John was grinning at _him_, and sat back slightly instead of gawking at Lily as though he had never seen a baby before. _"You've been taken in, I can see it on your face."_

"She's beautiful," Sherlock said out loud. "Truly. She has your nose."

_"Eh?"_

Sherlock grinned into the webcam. His eyes were invariably drawn back to Lily. She really was beautiful. Good that John and Mary got to have that slice of perfection.

_"Oi, I don't know why, but I feel like you're insulting me somehow!"_

Lily shifted in John's arms in the video. John froze, looking down at her.

"Shh." Sherlock pressed his lips into a line, trying to stop himself from smiling. "You're going to wake her up."

_"Well, if you didn't take the pi- take the mickey, I wouldn't be loud,"_ John whispered, quietly enough that Sherlock could barely hear him.

"I wasn't; I said she's perfect, you have the same nose, you both have perfect noses," Sherlock stated matter-of-factly. "That was a compliment, why can't you take a compliment?"

John rolled his eyes, situating Lily in his arms.

Sherlock smiled faintly, leaning back in his chair. Silence reigned over the video chat; John enticed with Lily's presence in his arms and Sherlock content - although becoming less so - to watch John interact with his daughter. But there was something off even about that, something that settled past Sherlock's sore throat and into his already churning stomach, something telling him that _this is John's domesticity _and reminding him fiercely that John had only ever achieved that domesticity without Sherlock being around.

Simply put, he felt out of place. Excluded.

Strange feeling.

_"You okay?"_

Sherlock glanced up, meeting John's look through the screen. "What? Yes, I'm fine. Tired," he added. It wasn't a lie.

_"You should go to bed. I mean, at least go lie down, if you're running a fever or anything-"_

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "I mean, I'm not, but I am tired, and you're probably busy with Lily, Mary's going to be home soon."

_"Yeah, she is... Hey, listen, let me know when you get back to Baker Street, alright? Everyone's going to be chuffed to see you."_

Sherlock nodded jerkily. "Yes, of course. I'll be back soon."

He didn't know if he would, but it didn't seem prudent to tell the truth. He wanted to be back, officially, but he didn't want to face John and the endless questions that his friend was bound to have. On the other hand, he thought, as he closed the laptop after he and John had said their goodbyes, he _did_ want to see John and get back to the life that he had had, and try to forget everything that had happened while he had been away.

Of course, in doing that, he was disturbing John in what appeared to be perhaps the best part of his life.

... Maybe it was just better to distance himself a little bit. That he could do, right? Make his official return to London, to Baker Street, get to see John and Mary and Molly, Mrs Hudson, Grant, and even begrudgingly Mycroft on a more normal meeting than secretive pick-ups from private planes. He could have that slice of normalcy, and then he could focus on healing to get back to work. The work was bound to still be there, that was for sure. He was going to be busy; he had left Scotland Yard on its own for another seven months, after all.

It seemed easy enough.

* * *

Naturally, curled over the sink, one hand gripping the countertop and the other on his aching ribcage, as he retched bile and spit into the sink later that night, Sherlock knew things weren't just _easy_ when it came to him.

* * *

**A/N: My projected timeline is as such: Lily was conceived in June/July of S3, tSo3 took place in August, Sherlock left on his exile in early January, Lily was born in March, and Sherlock returned in August. There will be some time jumps within this story just because of the nature of it, but I hope to have those thoroughly obvious when they happen.**

**One other thing: anything that happens in this story, I've written it that way for a reason. Why video chat instead of face-to-face? You could figure that out, but some things will probably give you an _eh?_ moment. It's purposeful, trust me.**

**I do not own _Sherlock_, thank you for your support on this story, and I look forward to your future reviews! :)**


	3. The Things You Get Into

Baths were better than drugs.

Sherlock wasn't sure if it was a good thing or a bad one that he actually _believed_ that for the time being. He was sunk chin-deep in just too-hot water, breathing in the steam and soaking in the silence of Baker Street. He had been back in London for two weeks, but he had only just gotten back to Baker Street six days ago. He had gone to John's just yesterday, where he had been thrown the most extravagant surprise party of his life (and the only surprise party of his life) between John and Mary and Lily.

_And Lily_. She was gorgeous, Sherlock had been right about that. She seemed to be totally taken in by Sherlock almost as he was abashedly taken in by her, and John and Mary had slapped on the icing on the cake asking him to be godfather. He had been properly gobsmacked - although partly due to the fact that Lily had begun wailing in the shocked silence that had followed.

It was going to be both awesome and awful at the same time, he reckoned. He wasn't good with kids by any means, but Lily was just too... _everything_ for him to be able to say that he didn't want anything to do with her. Because he wanted to. He just had to learn how to change nappies first.

The hot water lapped against his aching body, lulling him into a state between alert and relaxed, so much so that he didn't notice footsteps on the staircase until there was a knock on the bathroom door.

He flinched, causing the bath water to slosh up over the side of the bath, earning his unwelcome visitor a well-placed curse in his mind, before snapping "not _now_, Mrs Hudson!" He could honestly only take so much of the woman's concern. He may be loathe to admit just how much he cared for his landlady, but he wanted to relax after a long, long time away (even though it hadn't been as long as the fall, and wasn't that strange that it felt impossibly longer?)

"Not Mrs Hudson." John peeked around the cracked doorway, his smile turning to concern almost immediately. "Sherlock, you're black and blue!"

"_Oh_." Sherlock gripped at the tub to sit up slightly, his fingers wet and slippery against the cold numbness of the porcelain. "John. I wasn't expecting you." He felt oddly self-conscious. He could count the times where he had been self-conscious on one, _maybe_ two hands, and much less around John. But with the bruises and scratches and scars mottling his skin, he suddenly felt less at ease around his former flatmate than he usually did. Maybe there was such a thing as oversharing. New information. Required further analysation.

"What happened to you?" John stepped the rest of the way into the bathroom. "Did you already get into a fight?"

"No, uh..." Sherlock cleared his throat. "Those are from the fight _before_ I got back." He gave John a slightly sheepish smile and prodded at one of the discolourations on his skin. "They're mostly healed, but some of the bad ones have stuck around, not to mention the broken ribs..."

"What happened to you over there?"

_Lots of things_, was the first thing that popped into Sherlock's head, although he didn't say it out loud. What had happened had happened, and he had no inclination to get into it, John or not. "Kill or be killed," he mused instead. It wasn't far from the truth. In honesty, it was the truth. John would take it as a joke.

"You are going to tell me," John said sternly. "Have you had ice on those? You didn't tell me how far healed everything is."

"Just like I told you how I faked my death?" Sherlock retorted, flashing a wry smile as he settled back against the tub. "I iced them when it was relevant; like I said, they're mostly healed. The cast came off, my ribs are finally feeling better, and everything else is minor. I'll be fine."

It was a far cry from his usual dismissive _"fine"_ retort when someone inquired about his health, but it was the most that he could manage. He would be fine. Everything would be fine. It was fine.

John sighed heavily. "If you say so. Let me know if you need anything, though, anything at all, alright?"

_I'll keep it in mind._ "No need," he said, resting his head back against the wall. "Was there a reason you dropped by in the middle of my bath or did you just want to infringe upon my personal space?"

"Oh, I just... wanted to check in on you."

John's voice was off; Sherlock's gaze flew to him immediately as he realised maybe his tone hadn't been exactly what he had intended it to be with his remark. "I was joking, obviously," he said, hoping to clear away the strange look on John's face.

"Come to think of it, if you want-"

"I want you to stay," Sherlock interrupted. It slipped out before he could catch himself, and he both mortified and grateful that his cheeks were already flushed from the temperature of the bath.

"No, really, I should let you get settled in," John said, shaking his head. "You only just got back a few days ago, yeah? You must still be exhausted."

He was, but that didn't matter.

"I'm glad to see you've gotten back here, though. Baker Street's not the same without you. Well, London, really." John smiled. He looked tired. Sherlock estimated that he was still losing sleep every night and he was taking extra shifts at the surgery to keep up with the cost of living for a new child while Mary took fewer in order to stay home with Lily. "I'll call you tomorrow?"

Sherlock unstuck his tongue from the roof of his mouth. "Sure," he agreed lightly.

"Maybe if we're lucky, you'll find us a case," John said.

Sherlock wasn't sure if he was joking or not, but it sounded good. He said as much out loud, and John laughed and Sherlock was still smiling after John had let himself out and let Sherlock to his bath.

It didn't stay long, though, the smile. It melted back into expressionless moments after John had left, leaving Sherlock in the silence and the steam again. It was exhausting to keep up false pretenses, however flip-flopping they may be on the scale of Truth to Complete Lie, and Sherlock felt like he hadn't smiled in so long that he wasn't sure he could manage it anymore.

He just needed some more rest. He was still getting settled, like John said. Sherlock drew his arm over his eyes and sighed heavily, curling his fingers into his palms. When his fingernails bit into his clammy skin, he barely even noticed.

* * *

"I didn't actually think you'd _find_ us a case," John panted, doubled over with his hands on his knees.

Sherlock felt increasingly more out of breath than John looked, somewhere on the verge of collapse which he played off with a laugh. "Yeah... well..." He waved a hand dismissively. "Can't sit at home all the time."

"It's only been a week!"

"Not the craziest thing we've done," Sherlock replied, and it was almost like their very first case together. That had been _ages_ ago.

"Not even close." John straightened up, drawing in a deep breath. "Come on, my place is ten minutes away. I'll make some tea and biscuits for you, you look knackered."

Ten minutes wasn't a long walk, was it? Except his legs felt like lead and, while they had gotten their suspect but had lost their money in the gambling ring, Sherlock wanted nothing more than to crawl in a cab and go home. Crawling in a cab and going to John's for tea and biscuits sounded good as well. Very good, in fact, but he'd have to settle for walking.

"I could use the sugar," he agreed, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"Or a kip," John advised.

Sherlock hummed, matching John's pace. "I'm surprised you kept up. I expected you to have gained weight and slowed down in my absence."

"Thanks," John said sarcastically. "No, remember? I have a kid. And before long, I'll be chasing her around and then chasing her around even more when she takes off running. I don't have time to gain weight."

"Domesticity still suits you."

John glanced sideways at him. "Suits you, too. I've seen the way you've looked at Lily the times you've been around the house."

Sherlock studiously kept his gaze ahead. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Even not looking directly at him, Sherlock could tell John was smiling when he replied "Yeah, whatever. Keep telling yourself that."

"I will, thanks."

It was easy to fall into an old routine. It was significantly less difficult than it had been when John had been under the assumption that Sherlock was dead.

"I'll put the kettle on, give me a sec," John said as he shrugged off his coat in the entranceway of his flat.

Sherlock felt onto the sofa without a second's pause, not bothering with his own coat or scarf and gloves. He was bone tired. He was going to have that cuppa, and maybe some biscuits, and then he planned on maybe falling asleep on John's couch, like he had so many times before he had gone on exile. It almost seemed more comfortable than his own, these days.

"John, is that you?!" Mary's voice yelled down the hall.

"Yeah, sorry!" John called back from the kitchen. "We got in a little more deep than we thought we would, we lost our phones!"

"And you couldn't find a different phone? You were due back hours ago, John! I thought something happened, the things Sherlock gets you into. What if something _had_ happened, did you forget you have a daughter now- oh." Mary stopped abruptly as she came through the hall into the sitting room.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Hey, Mary."

"Sorry." She blew out a breath. "I didn't know you were here."

"Rough day?" he intoned, putting enough tone into his voice so it didn't come off wrong.

There was the argument; the all-around, completely inclusive _John, we have a daughter now!_ Sherlock had expected it ages ago, even before he had known about Mary's past. He had anticipated that the card would be played, but he didn't anticipate the pang in his chest that had occured when Mary _had_ played it. Interesting. Unwelcome.

"Mary," John interrupted from the doorway. Sherlock wasn't sure if it was nice sentiment that he was frowning, or if it was a bad sign.

Mary turned to him immediately, crossing the room. "Sorry, love, I was just worried."

"'s okay." John pecked a kiss on her cheek. "You're right, I should have called." He pulled away to hand off the biscuits to Sherlock. "They're not your favourite, but it's all we have."

"That's fine. Your house, after all." Sherlock idly grabbed one of the biscuits and bit into it pointedly, turning his attention to the window. He pretended not to notice when Mary followed John into the kitchen and the frustration on both of their faces when they came back after a _nearly _whispered row that Sherlock clearly wasn't meant to know about.

"You're looking better than you did when I saw you a week ago," Mary commented, sinking into her chair. "Settled back in?"

Sherlock forced a practised smile. "Very much so."

He loathed small talk.

* * *

He did not fall asleep on John's sofa.

He went home and fell asleep in his own bed.

When he woke up, he was tangled in his own blankets and his skin prickled with his own sweat, the sound of gunshots ringing in his ears and the look of annoyance on Mary and John's faces imprinted beneath his eyelids.

The nightmares hadn't stopped just because he'd come back to London, but they now made his nerves jangle in ways that he wasn't accustomed to. He didn't know why, exactly - yes, he did.

He hadn't fallen asleep on John's sofa last night.

There was a change coming. Sherlock wasn't too keen on his odds this time.

* * *

**Thanks again for all of the support for this story! I'm keeping the chapters coming every few days to keep you all placated :) Although that term is relative when it's this story... Oh well! Hopefully you're all still feeling the feels!**


	4. Kill or Be-

**A/N: Warning: Depictions of violence. T+**

* * *

"So... sorry about Mary the other day."

Sherlock's lips twisted towards his own version of a smirk. "Apologising for your wife. You really _have_ sunk into that level of domesticity."

"Come off it." John sank onto the couch. "You know what I mean, you don't like our domestics. It's just been a little stressed lately."

"Since I came back, you mean."

John's retort wasn't immediate, and neither was the heavy sigh that gusted through his lips moments later. "Why do you have to do that?"

Sherlock glanced up. "Do what?"

"Make everything about you," John said. "This isn't about you, this isn't because of you. We're _glad_ you came back."

"Oh, good." He looked back at the microscope.

"You're impossible."

"Take that as a compliment." He switched out the slides expertly. The thin glass pieces were cool beneath his fingertips and, suddenly, he wasn't working on cold cases in his kitchen any longer.

_His gloves having been long since deserted two towns over with no chance to get a new pair, the metal of the .44 Magnum was frigid against his fingers. Gloves later; target now._

_Sherlock puffed out a breath that turned to condensation in the air and closed his eyes. There was no sound. The distinct lack of it was unnerving; he wasn't the only one waiting for opportunity and one of them was going to have to break._

_He was seventy-eight per cent confident in his skills against this man in particular. It wasn't ideal, but it was more than half. That meant he was the first one to make a move. After all, it wasn't like he had a home to go back to. If he died, no one would miss him any more than they already did._

_Sherlock darted out from behind the tall beams, from one to the other. There was too much cover. He was never going to get his target like this and if he let him go now, he'd spend _weeks_ tracking him again. He'd have to make a break for it, and rely on the idiocy of the man to follow him._

_He ran._

_The gunshots weren't instantaneous, but came soon enough. Wasting ammo was pointless until he was sure that he could get a clear shot in-_

_Pain radiated up from his calf, white hot and crippling. His mind short-circuited for a precious half second where he went tumbling to the ground in a tangle of unkept hair and lanky limbs and a litany of curses. He could feel the blood quickly soaking into the grubby joggers he'd been wearing, but that was trivial. Transport. Bigger things. Target. _Death.

_The .44 was still locked beneath tenacious fingers, the bite of cold gunmetal turning his fingers numb. Hell, his hand was probably frozen to the thing. He wouldn't know the difference at this point._

_Grinding his teeth against the pain, he rolled onto his side and fired._

_His target hit the ground not ten feet away from him with a loud thud, instantly dead from the well-placed bullet. Target practise wasn't for nothing, after all._

_Sherlock fumbled for the bullet wound on his own calf. He was going to need stitches, again. He let out a thin breath and counted down in his head for pain management, free of the chase for the time being._

_He curled his fingers around the barrel of the .44, flexing his muscles against the icy touch beneath his palm._

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock jumped slightly, looking across the room at John. "I'm sorry?" If he had been talking, he hadn't heard him. He _was_ looking at him a little too closely, standing in the doorway instead of on the sofa where Sherlock had last seen him. Sherlock leaned back slightly, shoving the slide back into the microscope.

"What was that?"

"What?"

"You were in the clouds."

"Nothing." Sherlock cleared his throat. "So, uh... what is it, then? You and Mary, having problems, that... thingy?" He waved his hand in a dismissive sort of fashion, detaching himself from both the nightmares and the trivialities of the present.

John clicked his tongue. The floor groaned as he moved around. "Nothing. Just stuff."

"Stuff."

"Yes, stuff. Alright?"

Sherlock glanced up again. It was a deduction; it was a distraction.

A hundred tiny little details went through his mind at usual rapid pace, filling the shaken void after his momentarily lapse. It replaced all the sullied thoughts with metaphorical breath of life. Of course this was his medicine. More than anything that the doctors could give him, the pills that Mycroft tried to get him to bring home after that first night back home. Deductions, distractions, case work and death. Perfectly normal criminals being criminal. Not consulting detectives turned assassins in Eastern Europe. All he needed was _this_, and John and John and John.

"Money," he snapped off efficiently.

John huffed. "Stop that."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "If you need finances, why didn't you come to me? As godfather to Lily, I could-"

"Because I'm not going to come to you for help with money, that's why," John retorted.

"Oh, that is ridiculously old fashioned."

"It's old fashioned that I want to be able to provide for my own family?"

The look on John's face spoke that Sherlock was stepping into dangerous territory. Well, maybe he didn't understand. He didn't have a family. "... All I'm saying, if you need help-"

"I won't ask you, I know."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "This was going to be the one time that I tell you that I would help."

The storm clouds on John's face cleared slightly, producing a brief laugh in the respite. "Thanks, but we'll suffer through for awhile."

"Lots of that going around lately," Sherlock said, a little wistfully, before he could stop himself.

John just agreed.

* * *

"The commission on this case is going to help, you know," Sherlock said conversationally.

At least, that was what he had said earlier this morning over the phone, where John had grumbled at him for and said they were splitting it as usual. It had been a generally good premise, this case.

Now there was a gun pressed to John's forehead - his own gun, highjacked, in fact - and Sherlock was frozen where he had been when their murderer had walked up.

"He has nothing to do with this," Sherlock said slowly, pointedly. "He was just here with me, consulting. I'm the detective that was hired for this job."

"Doesn't matter! He's _here_, innit he?"

"How much more collateral damage do you want?"

"You think it matters at this point?!"

"Yes." Sherlock folded his fingers into his palms, knuckles straining against his gloves. "Of course it does."

"No, it doesn't!"

Sherlock worried at the inside of his cheek, meeting John's gaze across the room. Something that he wasn't used to seeing was planted firmly in John's eyes. Fear. There was a certain amount of fear allowed per the usual hostage/captive situation, but this was difficult. This was something amplified; John was _scared_.

Probability that it had to do with his new daughter? High. Very high. And that was something that Sherlock did not want to entertain. Lily, innocent Lily, who looked at him and John and Mary like they were the best three people on earth. And how Lily looked up at him with eyes that were full of both wonder and a strange sense of peace. Sherlock couldn't let that be tainted, he couldn't let someone like _her_ be hurt for someone like _him_. John had to come out of this, alive.

"Yes, it does. It does. Listen to me-"

"No, no, no! I'm done listenin'! I'm done!"

Sherlock watched John flinch, and stepped forward in a panic, a flurry of emotions that he wasn't accustomed to feeling when-

The echo of a gunshot rang out from in the room.

Sherlock's blood turned to ice, his body locking up in place again. His chest felt tight, his heartbeat hammering in his ears over the sound of the gunshot still rebounding in his mind. He couldn't look to the left slightly, down and to the left the fraction of an inch where John was standing because, it was John, and he was...

The murderer fell to the floor.

Blood pooled from his head, the entry wound directly through the man's forehead. Crack shot. Sherlock shook, and he glanced up at first John - shell-shocked and wide-eyed, but alive - and then across the room to where the gun had been fired from.

Mary lowered the gun, her expression unreadable. She looked back at Sherlock evenly before turning away without a word, looking to John. "... You didn't come home."

John opened his mouth and then closed it again, slumping down the wall slightly.

"You were supposed to be home," Mary continued, her voice oddly flat even though it was wavering. "A half hour ago. You didn't come home."

John swallowed and turned away. He seemed incapable of speech, and Sherlock, for once, was inclined to wholly agree.

It was an awkward cab ride home.

Mary stared at the empty seat opposite her without saying a word. Sherlock didn't know where Lily was, but he assumed either Mrs Hudson or even Mycroft. Mary didn't offer an explanation. Sherlock didn't ask.

John wasn't looking at Sherlock or Mary. His gaze was trained on the window of the rain-washed London. The look on his face was no longer fear, but something that Sherlock couldn't place. It was... it wasn't settling.

Sherlock gave up on looking at Mary for answers to how she'd found them or why she'd put herself in danger. He gave up on looking at John for explanation of the strange look that was on his face, partially because he wasn't sure he wanted to hear it. He eventually turned his gaze to the window as well, watching the raindrops chase the others down the glass.

He didn't stop shaking for the duration of the cab ride.

No one asked him if he was alright. It was fine. He couldn't express the questioning sentiment to either of them, either.

* * *

**Mary's still Mary, and she's got that blood in her, too. So some things haven't changed, and some things aren't going back. And collectively now: Poor everyone.**

**Onto more character development, then. xP Hang in there, everyone!**


	5. You're Not Okay, Are You?

_Presumed poisoning with fire cover up. Visit family/friends of victim?_  
_S_

_Not today sorry_  
_J_

_You're off work all day._  
_S_

_Still a little shook up from last time. spending time w/ lily and mary. ttys though_  
_J_

Sherlock breathed out silently as he read the responding text. It was a perfectly sound reason, one that he knew John well enough that he knew he shouldn't push. So, he wasn't going to; he was perfectly capable of manipulating people into giving him the information he wanted to know on his own. After he hit the scene of the arson - and accordingly fought his way through the idiocy that was the arson team - he would go visit the familiars of the vic and fine-tune the case. Simple. The looming exhaustion that he couldn't shake from interrupted sleep would make it only slightly more difficult, and slightly more annoying to have to talk to people, but he would manage.

"Where's John?" was the first question out of Lestrade's mouth.

Honestly, didn't anyone remember that he used to be a solo act before he had met John six years ago? He was capable of solving a murder by himself, or inane tasks like hailing a cab to a crime scene and preparing breakfast for himself.

"He does have a wife and child, you know," he said, pulling his leather gloves off to replace them with latex.

"Yeah, but, I mean, it's John," Lestrade said. "He does about as good with staying out of trouble as you do."

"He's managed fine on his own while I've been gone," Sherlock replied, striding into the building without looking back.

"Careful, Sherlock. The building's been deemed structually safe, but watch where you step."

"Noted."

The poisoning victim was going to be an annoying case, Sherlock could tell, just from the fact that his victim had been burned beyond recognisation. Any evidence that might have been there upon first glance was buried now, and it was going to take more chemical work on his behalf to dig it out. Not impossible, but a challenge. And still a boring one, though.

"Have you got a list of the relatives?"

"Running them now."

"I need family, friends, co-workers. Life story. Same as always."

"If you're going to question people, we'll call them down to-"

"No," Sherlock interrupted. "I'll find them quicker, don't bother."

"Sherlock..." Lestrade started, but Sherlock cut him off by getting to his feet and pulling his gloves off.

"I'll need to get Molly's analysis before I can tell you for sure what kind of poison was used," he said, striding for the door, "but it's possible that all of the traces have been-"

His vision went dark like walking into room as black as pitch. He felt disconnected and dizzy for a half second before gravity readjusted itself, and the darkness was overcoming and suffocating.

* * *

He didn't have any recollection of falling, but he must have passed out; when he opened his eyes again, he wasn't at the crime scene but instead staring at the ceiling of a flat that wasn't familiar. His limbs felt weak and shaky. He had the distinct impression that as well as being tired, his blood sugar was running dangerously low.

"You're awake."

Sherlock tilted his head groggily, looking towards the voice. It wasn't John, that much he could tell instantly, and the latest person that he had been with had been-

"Lestrade?" he mumbled, rubbing the back of his against his eyes. "... Is this your flat?" It wasn't his own flat, and it wasn't familiar. Given that it was Lestrade here, it was likely his flat. Easy deduction, even though Sherlock's brain felt sluggish. Ugh. He was not feeling well.

"Yeah. Not that you've ever been." Lestrade hovered next to the sofa, looking uncomfortable. "Uh, you probably don't remember, you passed out at the scene. I called John but he said Lily was sick and if you didn't have a fever that you were probably just exhausted..." He looked down at him critically.

"Oh, I'm fine." He clamoured for the armrest to pull himself up. "I just-" He stilled when a spike of nausea jabbed into his stomach, his fingers brushing against his lips.

"Shit, don't puke on the sofa, hang on."

Sherlock removed his fingers slightly. "... I wasn't planning on it," he muttered, although it didn't stop Lestrade from thunking the bin next to the couch. Sherlock gave him a sour look, draping his arm across his stomach. "It's mind over matter; I've gotten good at handling it."

Lestrade's frown deepened. "You are sick, aren't you? I'm just going to call John ba-"

"No!" Sherlock winced, and ignored the look that Lestrade gave him. "I can take care of myself, Lily can't. I'm fine."

"What's going on with you?" Lestrade crossed his arms. "You look peaky. Exhausted, even, what have you been up to that you've gotten good at not puking?"

"Nothing."

_"Sherlock."_

"Nothing," Sherlock repeated. He shifted uncomfortably. "It's just insomnia rearing up."

Lestrade narrowed his eyes. "Are you using again?"

"No," Sherlock retorted. He followed up with a sigh, and ran his fingers back through his hair. "I haven't readjusted to being back in this life, I suppose."

"This life? As compared to... whatever you were doing while you were gone?" Lestrade guessed. "What were you doing when you were gone?"

"Oh, no." Sherlock managed to push himself up this time, swinging his legs off the sofa. "We're not... we're not doing this." He huffed a breath and glanced towards the window, double-taking at the lack of illumination outside the window. "How long have I been here?"

"'bout six hours. You were out cold and I wasn't going to leave you until I knew what was going on. Still don't," Lestrade added.

"Yes, well, I'm fine." Sherlock got to his feet wearily and stretched. "I have to get to that analysis..."

"Woah, forget the analysis," Lestrade interrupted. "Go home, get some rest. We aren't going to solve the case overnight."

"Evidently."

Lestrade sighed. "Look, I don't know what's going on with you. But figure it out, alright? Get some sleep. Eat something that's not tea and toast. Talk to John."

Sherlock hummed, looking around for his coat. "John's busy with Mary and Lily. Like I said, I'm capable on my own."

"Talk to someone, then," Lestrade fired back.

"I'll keep it in mind," Sherlock said absently, whisking his coat off the chair.

"I'm serious."

His fingers paused on fixing his collar. "... I know," he said softly. Then he plastered on the smile that he was a pro at these days, and grabbed his scarf. "Good night, Lestrade. I'm sorry about your wife, truly."

"Wha- how did you- I haven't even taken my ring off yet!"

"At least the divorce'll be easy; she wants very little from you. Reoccuring theme, I think," Sherlock mused.

"Sherlock!"

"Be in touch," Sherlock said, managing not to wobble as he strode out of the room.

* * *

**Yes, there's absolutely no appearance from John this chapter asides from a text. This is a short chapter, and mostly a filler one, being used as a segway into other plot points, so, to make up for that, I threw in some parental!Lestrade because that still remains a guilty pleasure of mine. If you don't like this chapter, I'm sorry, but stick around, there's more stuff coming for the group.**

**Thanks for all your reviews thus far, they're confidence boosters and muse inspiring ^^ **


	6. No Family

"Have you ever been to therapy before, Mr Holmes?"

"... Not in awhile."

Sherlock pressed his lips together into a thin line, crossing his legs at his ankles. The chair was uncomfortable. It made his back hurt, turned his behind numb. He didn't move from his stock-still position. Didn't dare to. Barely dared to breathe, even.

This was not his forte.

Ever.

"What brought you to our office today?"

"You know why."

"I know of your time away-"

"Then you know all you need to know."

"It's been a month since your return to England. From what I see here, your problems have been reoccurring since before you even left Europe. So, I'm asking you: why _now_?"

Sherlock wanted to glare at the therapist that he had been assigned - he had forgotten her name and he did not plan on relearning it - but he didn't take his eyes away from the dreadfully dull painting that was hanging on the wall behind the therapist's left shoulder. He couldn't. No matter how stoic a person may be, eyes were always the most expressive of features. Eyes could give a multitude of information away without even trying. So. Sherlock wasn't looking.

"... It's interfering with my work," he said succinctly.

"And you're a private investigator."

"Consulting detective."

"Yes. You consult with New Scotland Yard on cases. What have you been experiencing that's inhibiting your work process?"

Outwardly, he was perfectly calm, disgruntled, even, but _in control_. Inwardly, the borderline personal questions made him _squirm_. What was inhibiting his work process?

"Emotions."

"Emotions?"

Sherlock startled, his eyes bouncing away from the portrait and onto the therapist's dark hazel ones. He hadn't known he'd spoken out loud.

"What is it about emotions, Mr Holmes? Which emotions?"

Sherlock licked his lips, looking back at the portrait. "... I can't sleep," he said slowly, instead. He curled his fingers into a fist.

"Why is that?"

"If I knew, I wouldn't be here." Sherlock inhaled. "... I fall asleep and wake up. If you want an actual reason why, I have... nightmares." The word felt choked in his own throat. He could barely force it out past his lips. His ears felt hot.

He didn't _talk_ about things like this.

God, he wanted _out_ of here. So, why wasn't he moving?

"About your time in Eastern Europe?"

"... Yes."

"Do you care to elaborate?"

"No."

"That's fine." His therapist made a note, leaving Sherlock burning to know what exactly she was writing down about him. "Do you have these nightmares every night, Mr Holmes?"

"Not every night," Sherlock relented carefully, "but... often."

"How many nights a week would you say your sleep is interrupted by these nightmares?"

"Three or four?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. "My sleeping schedule isn't exactly on par with the average idiot's to begin with, so it varies depending on my work."

"When you wake up from these nightmares, do the effects linger?"

Sherlock frowned. "What do you mean, linger? I can't get back to sleep the rest of the night, if that's what you mean."

"No," his therapist said, leaning forward. "For example, do you feel the urge to flee upon waking? Or perhaps fight as though the attacker is there?"

"No. I'm in the present, I know the difference. It's just the usual stuff."

"What's usual for you?"

"Usual as in... the usual. Average after-effects of dreams. Heart pounding, sweating, nausea, uneasiness." Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "Shouldn't you know how dreams affect people, you're the therapist."

"Anxiety?"

"No." Sherlock could feel the inquisitive gaze on him without looking up. He knew the question that was being asked, but the answers felt shortcoming. "... Resignation, maybe," he said shortly.

"Resignation." Another note. "Why is that?"

"Because I was there for a specific reason." Sherlock paused. "Oh. This is how therapy works, isn't it? You start out with a seemingly small question and dig further into it until I admit things that my subconscious is keeping hidden from my conscious mind."

And there was a small smile from his therapist. "I'm just trying to get an understanding of what you've been through, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock looked away from the painting. "... That's not possible."

His therapist had the strangest shade of hazel eyes that he'd ever seen. Too dark for hazel, too light for brown. He couldn't pinpoint it, exactly. It was another fly in the ointment.

"And I wouldn't want you to understand, anyway."

* * *

He couldn't shake the tune that was forming in his head as he strode up the walkway towards John's flat. It was something he was composing, or trying to, something soft and light that spun around in Sherlock's mind as he picked out notes and rests and refrains and bridges.

"Oh, Sherlock."

Sherlock glanced up as the front door opened just before he was about to fiddle for his key. "Oh, hey, Mary. Going out?"

"Yeah, gotta run to Cathy's." She smiled faintly, rummaging through her purse.

Sherlock glanced over her shoulder. "Is John in? I thought I'd stop by, I've been-"

"No, he went in to work."

He looked back at Mary. "He's off today."

"He got called in, he's picking up the shifts."

"Oh." Sherlock held in the sigh. "Who's watching Lily? I could babysit if you need someone to-"

"No," Mary interrupted quickly.

Sherlock stopped.

"I mean," Mary glanced up, smiling again. It was more frank this time, and less friendly. "She's fine, I've got Luce babysitting, don't worry about it."

"It wouldn't be a problem," Sherlock said slowly. Something wasn't right here. He wasn't sure what, but Mary's body language...

"Really, Sherlock, it's fine. Go home."

"What's-"

"_Sherlock!_" Mary gave up on searching for whatever she was rummaging for in her purse. "Just go home. John's at work and Lily's taken care of, there's no reason for you to be here."

The words stopped him cold. He wasn't used to Mary acting this way. He was used to some people acting this way towards him, certain people that he didn't like and didn't associate with, but Mary was... Mary. She was John's wife. She was... good.

"What's gotten your knickers in a twist?" he asked before he realised he was speaking.

"You know how many times John's gone home late since you got back, Sherlock? How many times he's told me you two've been shot at? It might not mean much to you because you don't have anyone but John has a _family_ now and he needs to be here with us, not off getting shot at with you when he's got a six month old daughter at home!"

Sherlock felt his entire body go rigid.

Mary froze, too, after she stopped shouting. "Sherlock, I didn't-"

Sherlock shook his head, his curls bouncing at his ears. "Yes, you did."

"I'm sorry, it's been a day, I didn't mean-"

"The funny thing about words are that you can say them, but never take them back," Sherlock replied, pulling his scarf tighter around his neck. "And you're right. Of course you are. You and John have a life together now since I left. I upset the balance. I'm dangerous, and you can't allow your family to be in that line of danger." He smirked. "You would do anything to protect your family. I remember."

"Sherlock-"

"Don't worry about it, Mary." He turned away. "I'm not an idiot."

He didn't give her a chance to respond. Or, if she did, he wasn't listening. He wasn't listening, he wasn't feeling. This wasn't happening; except it was.

It was good thing that he remembered what office his therapist was in. It was a good thing that her eyes were that strange colour that he couldn't pinpoint. He would be seeing a lot more of them, he had a feeling.

Sherlock blew out a breath, folding himself into the back of a cab.

Why were his hands shaking?

He needed a cigarette.

"_Where_ are you _goin'_?"

Sherlock shook his head to chase away the reverie, looking towards the cabbie who was giving him a disgruntled look in the rear-view mirror. "Uh... Baker Street. Two-two-one Baker Street," he muttered.

His stomach was in knots. Was this... rejection, or something? Was this... what was this? He clenched and unclenched his fingers, pressed them against his lips. He wasn't going to throw up in the back of a cab. He wasn't going to sleep without sleeping pills for ages. He wasn't... sure what was happening to him.

"I swear, if I get one more weirdo today..." the cabbie muttered, pulling into the street.

Sherlock smiled wryly. "Yeah." He turned his eyes to the window, not seeing anything past the grime-speckled glass. "Welcome to my life."

* * *

**A/Ns: Some housekeeping: 1) My original prompt was basically 'Mary doing anything to protect her family' (along with other points that I cannot explain for plot reasons right now), even if it meant cutting Sherlock out. Keep in mind Mary shot Sherlock before; she will do anything for her family, _and_ she's stressed out with a new baby now making her snap easier. Other explanations are forthcoming. 2) Sherlock in therapy is something that I adore, always have, it's interesting to work with. Personally, I think, if he _knew_ that his mental processing was interfering with his Work, he _would_ willingly go. Keep in mind that this therapist is 'Mycroft provided', so she knows exactly why Sherlock went to Eastern Europe. 3) My chapters have gotten shorter. I thought it was just last chapter, but it's a couple. They do get longer again, but bear with me!**

**As always, thank you immensely! Hoping you're still liking this, and as always, I look forward to your thoughts!**


	7. Do Your Worst

The cases were sparse, and Sherlock's attention span was directed more towards his own problems than the problems of the population of idiots around him.

The exhaustion was manageable only with the help of sleeping aids. Even then, that was sleep. It wasn't rest. He slept, but woke up as exhausted as when he took the pills in the first place. The dizziness that came with it came and went, but the gastrointestinal problems made trying to eat an absolute nightmare. He wasn't particularly hungry to begin with, but not eating for an extended time made him prone to being more irritable than usual, and it made his transport shaky at best. He managed to avoid passing out - mostly - when he didn't eat, but succumbed to his stomach being in knots every time he ate so much as a piece of toast.

It was just something he had to deal with. He could deal with it.

Just like he was dealing with the sudden silence from one end of his life, namely, the Watson end. Mary didn't try to get in contact with him, and it would have surprised Sherlock if she had. He had been serious. He knew that Mary had been lying when she said _I didn't mean it!_. She wouldn't have said it at all if it hadn't been on her mind, and it was better that she'd said it than just thinking about it. At least it meant that they weren't keeping secrets.

John, on the other hand, had no reason to be distancing himself from Sherlock and still he was. Mary could have told him of the conversation she and Sherlock had had, but Sherlock doubted that she would have. And even if she had told John that she didn't want him gallivanting with Sherlock because of the threat level, Sherlock wasn't sure that they would have stopped him. He loved his wife, that wasn't the issue, but... John liked the action, too.

But John hadn't stopped by, or called except a few times. There were the texts, but even those seemed distant. _Hope the cases are interesting. Dont bother Lestrade too much, okay? Call me up if you get a good lead._

Sherlock didn't have a particularly promising case to begin with, so he didn't call him. Maybe he was partially to blame himself. He wasn't... great with this keeping friends lark.

"And how long have you known John?"

Sherlock lowered his cup of tea. "... Around six years."

"How is your relationship since his marriage?" Therapist asked.

Sherlock shrugged. "Fine. He... I was his best man. Mary's, uh, good. She's fine. We've done cases together." He licked his lips. They tasted like oolong, remnants of the good brew of tea at the office. "She fit into our lifestyle."

"Our?"

"... My." Sherlock swallowed a mouthful of tea.

Therapist wrote down some more notes. Sherlock could imagine what they said this time; he was being a tiny bit too transparent. "And how is your relationship since the birth of his daughter?"

Sherlock put the cup back in the saucer and set it aside, sinking down a little further into the weathered sofa. "Well, I wasn't here when she was born-"

"Do you wish you were?" Therapist interrupted.

The question threw him off guard. "I... don't know. I'm not sure it matters." He hadn't ever thought about it before, but if he could have had that extra five and a half months with Lily, meeting her the moment that she had been born...

"Okay. You were saying?"

Sherlock shook his head slightly. If he had been back for the birth of John and Mary's daughter, would this whole debacle had been averted? Or would have it just happened earlier? "I didn't return from Europe until Lily was almost twenty-one weeks, John's been busy with her since I've come back, but that's to be expected, isn't it?"

Therapist looked at him inquiringly. He was thinking umber, for her eyes. Burnt umber, except that wasn't it, either. He couldn't grasp it. His head was throbbing.

"Is it?" she asked.

"How am I supposed to know?" he retaliated, sliding into the cushions more. "I'm just as new to all of this as John is to parenthood. I know John can't accompany me on cases like he used to. That was evident the moment that I came back from my mission to take down Moriarty's men, it's different now but that's just how it goes."

"Is it?"

"Is that the question of the day?" Sherlock asked irritably, pressing his fingers against his temple. "Because I'd rather ponder on other ones if it is."

"We're just having a conversation," Therapist replied. "Let's move on, shall we? How would you describe your relationship with John today? Have you gone out with him recently?"

Sherlock tipped his head back, thumping it against the back of the sofa with a nearly repressed groan. "Do we _have_ to keep talking about John?"

"I thought he was your friend."

"He is."

"Your best friend."

Sherlock picked his head back up. "I didn't say that."

Therapist gave him a look.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and dropped his head again. "Moving on. Our time's about up and you haven't asked me the obvious questions."

"What are the obvious questions, Mr Holmes?"

"How's my sleeping, are the nightmares still reoccurring, how many flashbacks I have per week, if the nausea and headaches have changed."

"And?"

"Surely you can read what you see.

"I may not be as adept as you," Therapist said, rifling with her papers, "but I'd like to think I can pick up on some things."

"Then you have all you need to know," Sherlock said dully.

"Progress, Sherlock."

Sherlock made a face, although he didn't look away from the ceiling. He wasn't sure that it felt like he was making progress here, but it was this or losing the Work. If his performance kept slipping on cases, Lestrade would have no choice but to... He shook his head a bit. No, he wasn't going to lose the Work. He had to hang onto that, at least.

He'd make sure of it.

* * *

The brick was rough underneath his fingers, gripping onto the wall for support with his other hand braced on his knee as he spit bile and saliva onto the cement.

"Sherlock-"

"I'll be fine," he gasped, waving his hand. "Just give me a second."

"Go home, Sherlock," Lestrade said forcefully.

"I'm fi-"

"I'm not asking anymore. Go home."

Sherlock straightened up wearily, looking at the Detective Inspector. "Don't do this."

Lestrade held up his hands. "I'm not doing anything. But I can see when you're at your limit and if you can't handle it, I'm telling you... go home. Just for now, okay? Until you're better. Call John. Call me, if you need anything. I'm sure there's something you can do-"

"The pills don't help," Sherlock spat. The amount of venom in his voice wasn't relative to the way he felt. He couldn't get his voice up to that level, throat aching and raw from vomiting.

Lestrade narrowed his eyes. "What pills?"

"Fluoxetine." Sherlock scrubbed the back of his hand against his mouth. "I've been on them since-" He stopped before he could say_ since I've gone to therapy_. He'd been on a different pill before the Prozac. He had not reacted well to that one. And he wasn't about to admit to the therapy. He could only go so far. "For awhile," he said pathetically.

"Which is what, exactly?"

"An SSRI." Sherlock leaned back against the wall heavily. His head was pounding, his heartbeat felt too loud in his chest, and he couldn't stop his legs from shaking.

"Antidepressants?"

Lestrade's surprise, evident in his tone, was echoed by Sherlock. He hadn't expected him to know what an SSRI was, but he supposed it didn't matter. He would have gotten there, anyway, eventually. Sherlock closed his eyes and chose not to respond.

Lestrade seemed to be stuck within his own thoughts as well. The silence was growing incredibly stifling, ringing in Sherlock's ears. He was exhausted; he wanted to sit down, he wanted to finish his investigation here.

"Er." Lestrade cleared his throat. "If you... well." He shuffled awkwardly, turning his attention to anything else. "I'm still not going to let you work this until things are better. Until you're not half unconscious by the time you get here. ... Sorry."

Sherlock exhaled heavily through his nose, shoulders slumping. It had just been a matter of time, hadn't it? Sure. Why did his head have to hurt _so_ bad?

"Sherlock?"

Something warm and inviting pressed up against his forehead. Sherlock's eyes flew open as he stared down at Lestrade, who'd apparently thought it wise to check for a fever. It was a familiar sensation, a familiar action... It was something that his parents had used to do when he'd been little and feeling poorly. Someone hadn't done that to him in... years.

"Sherlock, you're burning up!"

"I know," Sherlock breathed. "It comes and goes..."

It wasn't a lie, technically. His temperature was occasionally higher than average, and occasionally higher than a low-grade. But it would be there one day and gone the next. Like the psychological problems he was having, he had learned to deal with it, combating probable psychosomatic illness with sleep and vitamins.

"No, you're burning up." Lestrade placed either of his hands on either side of Sherlock's face.

"... You're bordering on strange behaviour," Sherlock muttered sarcastically. "People might talk."

"About you and me?" Lestrade dropped his hands. "You're confusing me with John. I'm taking you to hospital."

He was going to complain. Truly. He didn't need to go to a hospital, because his physical illness was being brought on by psychological distress. He knew that, and yet, he was one-hundred per cent powerless to stop his body reacting in certain ways. Such was the horror of a mental disorder.

But he couldn't complain, either. He knew he was sick. He could feel it in his core, too hot on the inside, too cold on the out. Weak and shaky, and the way his heart was pounding in his ears. He knew his body. He knew his tells. And complaining required effort. He had exactly zero per cent of that to give right now.

"... Right." He gripped at the knot in his scarf and searched for a breath of air that would chase away the stifling feeling. It was too warm, and the air was too humid. "Do you worst," he muttered, closing his eyes again.

* * *

**Tiny correction: It was said back in chapter one that Lily was four and a half months when Sherlock returned; it should have said five months, my maths was off. It's not a huge deal, but there is time passing between Sherlock returning and all of this happening, and Lily's age will come up later as a means of judging how long Sherlock's been back.**

**So, Sherlock's not getting any better. Thankfully he has Lestrade there when John isn't to notice. Back to longer chapters next chapter! Thanks for sticking around with your reviews and favs/follows!**


	8. John: Part One

"He's going to kill you, you know."

Sherlock inhaled sharply as the needle broke his skin, turning away from the nurse as she began to take the tiny vials of his blood. He looked up towards Lestrade, who had his arms crossed, expression stern, but concerned.

"John. He's going to rip you a new one for not bloody telling him."

"... Telling him about what?" Sherlock muttered.

"That you're sick!"

"Please." Sherlock closed his eyes. "It's not like I'm dying. It's all in my head, I just have to get over it."

"Well, maybe it started out in your head, but it's not just now. You've got a thirty-nine point two degree fever, to start with."

"It's psychosomatic," Sherlock retaliated, although weakly. He could feel the blood draining from his body, wreaking havoc on his already weakened state. He felt unsteady, and woozy, and less perturbed by the thought of being in a hospital bed than he should have been. The one upside was that he had been given some hospital strength medication, so the uneasiness and pain seemed a little further away than usual.

"You're still ill." Lestrade huffed, taking a few steps away. "Why didn't you tell him, anyway? I mean, I know you're private by nature - I only ever learned your birthday from your arrest records - but... it's John. Aren't you guys, I don't, still...?"

"Still what?" Sherlock asked flatly, and without opening his eyes. The darkness beneath his eyelids was swirling, but it was easier to have these tedious conversations if he didn't have to look at anyone.

"... You know. Friends."

Sherlock exhaled heavily, turning his head the other way. "We're in our forties, Lestrade, not our fours."

"I'm serious."

He couldn't stop the bit of a groan that bubbled up around his lips. Why was Lestrade insistent on talking about this? He had brought him to hospital, why didn't he leave? Wasn't it bad enough that he _felt_ bad enough to actually have _agreed_ to go to hospital, but now he had to put up with a lecture from one of the men who couldn't even find a fingerprint in a crime scene? About _John_, no less? About _friends_?

"I don't know what's going on with you, and John, but, Sherlock... don't shut him out."

"Why do you automatically assume it's me?"

"Oh, so it's John, then?"

Sherlock could practically hear the raised eyebrow, and see the realisation as it settled in when he gave no response in return.

"Sherlock-"

"He's got a family," he interrupted.

"Is this what this is about?" Lestrade sounded exasperated. "Is that why he hasn't been around on cases? Are you _deliberately_ not inviting him?"

"It's dangerous."

"For God's sake, that's never stopped either of you before."

"It's different now. He's got-"

"A family," Lestrade interrupted. "Yeah, you told me. You know what, he's right. For being so smart, you are remarkably thick."

Sherlock opened an eye, hoping the look that he flashed towards the Inspector was enough of a glare to express his emotions. "Thanks for that."

Lestrade shook his head. "John's got Mary, and Lily, yeah, but he's got you, too. Don't try to say he doesn't want you now, you git. You're his family, too, and cares about you just as much as he does his wife and daughter."

Sherlock wanted to scoff, but he couldn't dredge up the energy. The medication seemed to have a sleeping agent in it, and the thought of dreamless sleep was more than enticing. In his state, anyway, he was helpless to fight it. _He's got a funny way of showing it,_ he thought, as Lestrade's words filtered through his mind slowly, but then again, he supposed, there was more than one person to blame if he was pointing fingers.

"I swear..."

Lestrade's voice trailed off into nothingness, and Sherlock's mind produced no nightmares.

* * *

Sherlock's mind produced no nightmares for a time, anyway.

The medication wore off too quickly, or his mind was just resolute in dredging up the thoughts that he would rather not remember.

_He sucked in a shuddering breath, choking as the oxygen rushed into his lungs again. His eyes stung. Water ran down his face in winding tendrils, but his face was already numb from the cold. He tried to shake his hair out of his face, tried to get as much oxygen as possible before he would, inevitably, have his head shoved underwater again._

"Talk."

_Sherlock pressed his lips into a hard line, nostrils flaring. Drowning was never his favourite of ways to die. Sure, he had too much information on the government for him to actually be killed unless it was the final stretch (it wasn't), but no, he didn't particularly _like_ being drowned._

_The fingers tightened in his hair. "We can keep this up all day, Holmes." His head was pulled back uncomfortably, throat exposed as he gasped for air._

_"Don't know... what you're... talking about," Sherlock huffed. If it killed him, he'd keep lying. Mycroft had told him: six months. It had only been five, but it was relative. Mycroft had said to expect the worst; Sherlock did. But he was never going to give up anything pertinent. He was a Holmes. And, despite all pretenses, family did for family._

_"You're just covering for that pompous brother of yours! Do you want to die for him, too?"_

_"Don't know what... you're talking about," Sherlock repeated stoically. He had a split second of warning when the pressure of the fingers in his hair changed and he sucked in a deep breath that went interrupted by the rush of water that went rushing into his nostrils and mouth. His mind told him not to breathe, not to struggle, but his body only half complied. Staying calm while being drowned was more difficult than he had anticipated._

_He struggled futilely against the chaffing ropes around his wrists and spluttered for air that wasn't there._

_"Talk!"_

_Sherlock gasped again as his head was jerked back from the tub of water._

_"Tell us the truth and we'll stop all this."_

_He struggled to breathe and conserve his strength. He had to keep reminding himself: live in the lie. Live in the lie._

Sherlock awoke with a gasp, scrabbling for purchase on things that weren't cold steel or rough ropes. He came up with blankets and pliable tubing, the steady beeping of machinery echoing in his ears.

"Sherlock, hey, hey, hey, you're okay."

Sherlock pressed his hand over his mouth and forced himself to breathe through his nose, stopping himself gasping for air. He wasn't drowning. He wasn't in the past.

"You're okay, you're in hospital, remember?"

He did. That explained the coarse blankets and the IV ran into his arm. He was perfectly fine... which was relative, given the fact that he was in hospital in the first place. "I'm okay," he croaked, trying to sit up slightly.

"Here, hang on."

Hands were fumbling with his pillows, setting them back and propping them up so that he could sit up. The bed's recline was changed, making it a smooth transition.  
Sherlock settled back against the pillows heavily. "Thanks," he breathed, glancing over.

At John.

John was there?

Sherlock didn't realise he'd flinched until after the pain radiated through his body, and John's eyes as his friend held up his hands.

"It's okay," John said. "Just me."

"Oh." Sherlock swallowed. "Sorry."

John looked at him for a few seconds before turning away, trailing back to the chair. "So... we need to talk."

"About what?" Sherlock tried to feign disinterest, although he wasn't sure if he was hitting that right level of tone. He was still trying to catch his breath, and the uneasiness coursing through his veins did little to help.

"Since when do you go to therapy without complaining to the rest of the world first?"

Sherlock tensed up infinitesimally, tilting his head back towards John.

"Mycroft told me," John said, leaning back.

Sherlock scowled. "Figures. He never did have the knack for keeping secrets, it's a miracle he hasn't sold the entire British population yet out with his job."

"You really weren't going to tell me?" John interrupted. "About the therapy, the antidepressants, the PTSD?"

He turned his head away again. The wall was infinitely more interesting, and easier to talk to at this juncture. "... It's more just acute stress right now, I haven't been officially diagnosed with post-traumatic stress."

"Oh, come off it." John sighed heavily. The chair squeaked as he must have sank back. "Alright," he continued. His voice was different. He sounded exhausted. Sherlock felt the same way. He just wanted this to be done. "If we weren't... wherever we are now, would have you told me?" John asked.

Sherlock picked his words carefully for his response. "And where exactly is that we _are_?"

John didn't respond immediately.

Maybe he was just as confused as Sherlock was - although probably not likely, John had experience with 'friends' - or maybe he just didn't know how to say that he'd simply grown tired of being with Sherlock. But according to Lestrade, that wasn't true, either, and John had come immediately (Sherlock guessed it was immediately, he had no recollection of the day or how long he had been here) once he knew about the whole debacle...

"We're a mess."

Sherlock blinked rapidly. A mess? _Wonderful, John, that just about covers it._ He tilted his head slightly and intoned, self-deprecatingly: "When have we ever been not a mess?"

He didn't intend on giving John a _look_, but he supposed he must have. John caught his eyes in that split second and stared for a long minute before cracking a smile and Sherlock only barely stopped himself from huffing a laugh because of that.

"Fair enough, we've always been a mess." John waved his hand dismissively. He was still smiling, though, so there was that? "But, lately... look, I... I told you back before the wedding that we were going to do things and I didn't intend for that to change."

"Things do change," Sherlock added.

"Yes," John agreed slowly. "They do, but only if you let them. And I haven't really been... around very much."

"You've got Mary and Lily." As he was always quick to point out to whoever was bringing up the argument at the time.

John nodded. "I do. I love them to death, too, I'd do anything for them, but... uh." He cleared his throat. "You know I'd do that for you, too, right?"

John wasn't looking at him. Sherlock took the opportunity to look away again, squirming slightly. He was too aware of the emotions, the weight of the words that hung in the air. He could hear the beeping of the machines, and a clock ticking behind his bed, and the bustle of the orderlies as they made their rounds through the halls.  
He opened his mouth to respond, and closed it again.

To say that he was at a loss for words was a poor explanation. Usually he had the world's dictionary on the tip of his tongue, ready for any statement with a quick-witted comeback that even The Woman wouldn't be able to fluster him with. Perhaps he could find his words, yes; but none of them seemed to fit, or seemed more invasive than he wanted to get, nevermind that the one person he always felt comfortable with _was_ John Watson.

"... Look, I was happy when you came back, I didn't think I'd ever see you again after the stunt you pulled with Magnussen. I had already made my peace with that, but then... it was another miracle, right, when you came back again. And we went out on those cases and I started thinking about you, and Mary, and Lily, and... I wondered how many miracles can happen before the good luck starts to run out."

"Logical," Sherlock breathed. "It's a perfectly sound analysis... although I don't believe in luck, so it doesn't work for me."

"Yeah, I know you don't, but most people do. Still, that might have been okay, because whenever you're around, I can't stay away from the lifestyle, but that turned into a problem in itself because..." John shifted, sounding like he got to his feet. Paced away, again, by the sound of it. "Mary and I, we... we got back to, uh, a good place before you left, and then it was only a couple months later that she gave birth and Lily was there and... we were good. We were normal."

_Family,_ Sherlock's mind supplied. Like he had been saying.

"Then you came back and we wanted you back in our lives, because..." John laughed slightly. "Well, whether you like it or not, you're a part of my family too."

Sherlock looked back at John, but John was staring out the windows.

"But we went on those cases and when that one went wrong, and Mary found us... I... I guess I started remembering what I'd tried to forget, what Mary was, what she did... what she could still do. And I know what you and Mary both say, about what I _like_," John muttered darkly, "and I may have accepted that, but I still don't fancy the thought of my wife being a killer for hire and I couldn't be around _you_ without being stared in the face by the choices I made, and by the choices Mary made in her past."

He huffed and spun around, looking back at Sherlock.

"I know what you're going to say, you're going to say that it's stupid and sentimental-"

"No."

John stopped.

"... It is sentimental," Sherlock said shortly. "But you are sentimental." He fiddled with the IV line, wondering what they had given him this time. It seemed to help a little bit. "... If I were to be possessed by the whim to be sentimental, I'd say it's... totally understandable."

John stayed silent, and Sherlock didn't know what else to say. He wasn't sure if he was meant to be saying anything, to be honest. He felt like one of them should break the silence, but this was all new to him. He'd been friends with John for six years, and it was all still so very new to him. He hated being the one left in the fog of confusion.

It made him uncomfortable.

"... Anyway." John drummed his fingers against the out-of-use heater in the room, and cleared his throat again. "I mean, it's not you. I don't want to, I don't know, exclude you."

"So, we're not... breaking up?" Sherlock asked shortly.

John blew out a breath that it sounded like he'd been holding. "Do you have to say it like that?" he asked, but he was almost smiling again.

Sherlock tilted his head. "Not good?"

"Relationship rumours are still not good, Sherlock."

Sherlock chuckled slightly, relaxing back into his pillows. He felt like there was some progress that was being had here. He wasn't sure what he had been expecting; no, that wasn't true. He had been expected nothing. He hadn't expected John to give him an explanation for anything, and he hadn't expected John to take the blame and even have a reason beyond being busy. He hadn't... been expecting anything, but instead, he got a logical explanation. Logic was good, logic... he could work with. Er, more or less.

"Oh, uh, that sedative they gave you is out." John squinted at the IV bag. "Did you want a top-up to go back to sleep? Although I'm not sure if it was helping the nightmares..."

Sherlock swallowed. "It does. A bit," he added. "It'd be... good. Some more sleep, I mean. I've been missing out."

John nodded. "I'll see if I can find your doctor."

"Shouldn't be too hard," Sherlock remarked, pulling his pillow closer.

"Huh?"

"You're still my doctor," Sherlock said, looking up at John slightly. "... Right?"

John looked down at him for a moment. There were a multitude of emotions in his eyes, things that Sherlock could read and couldn't read, and things he didn't want to think about at the present moment. One step at a time. One step at a time.

John smiled. "Yeah. Course."

* * *

**A/N: And so the clueless get a kick in the arse. Or, at least, a call from hospital saying that Sherlock Holmes has him listed as an emergency contact and that said Holmes is in hospital. Some explanations have been revealed! Of course, there's still a good deal to cover, both with health and friendships. And the other half other Watson family: Mary.**

**Thank you for your support thus far! Stay tuned for the next chapter, and, as usual, I do not own _Sherlock_.**


	9. John: Part Two

Sherlock blearily looked towards John. He hadn't noticed that he was awake yet, which suited Sherlock fine. It gave him a few minutes to come out of his sluggish state while watching John. He was reading, flicking through pages of printed information with a look of concentration on his face. Clearly absorbed and, going by the wrinkles in his forehead, concerned with what he was reading.

Sherlock parted his lips to speak. "What's the prognosis?"

John jumped slightly, looking away from the papers and to Sherlock. "Oh, hey, I didn't know you were awake."

"Just woke up," Sherlock said quietly, clearing his throat. His throat hurt and his mouth was dry. He wanted hot tea, or even a coffee, but he wasn't sure what he was permitted now that he was in the hospital's clutches.

"How are you feeling?"

He could find the energy to raise an eyebrow, evidently. It was a stupid question on John's behalf, though, to be fair. "Like I let Lestrade take me from a crime scene to hospital, where I was drugged, catheterised, and connected to an intravenous drip of either medication or sedation, maybe both." He took a breath. "... Thirsty," he added, pressing his tongue against the back of his teeth. It felt like he hadn't brushed them in days, but he couldn't remember.

"Ah, hang on." John thumped the papers onto the countertop and busied himself with pouring a cup of water from the hideous hospital supplied pitcher.

"You're in your element," Sherlock said slowly, taking a sip of the water. It was warm, and tasted stale, but it was enough to chase the bitter taste of illness out of his mouth. "You're scary determined," he clarified with a gesture of the cup, as John glanced at him questioningly.

"Oh." John laughed slightly, resuming the seat next to the bed. "I guess. Surgery isn't the best place for this kind of caretaking, though."

Sherlock shrugged slightly. "No, I wouldn't think so. ... What's the prognosis?" he asked again. "I know you were reading my medical file," he said, eyes flicking to the papers on the bedside table.

John followed his gaze. "Don't you know?"

Sherlock hesitated, and then shook his head slightly. He thought it was needless to say that analysing his own state of health hadn't been top priority lately. Not to mention, he'd been trying to stay relatively in denial about the whole thing. _Mind over matter_, he thought sarcastically, lying in a hospital bed in a private room product of Mycroft.

John sighed, reaching for the papers again. "Uh, hypoglycaemia, hypertension, you're anaemic, and somehow've gotten infected with EBV..."

Sherlock frowned. "I promise that I haven't found a new fake girlfriend and forgotten to tell you about this time."

Whether or not it was a laugh or another sigh that John responded with was debateable. "Well, kissing isn't the only way you catch mono, you could have gotten it from anything... a water fountain, even. And you've got your immune system run down anyway..."

It made sense, Sherlock supposed. At least there was another logical explanation for why he'd been so exhausted as of late, although he was surprised that he hadn't figured EBV out for himself. Maybe it hadn't progressed enough for the symptoms to show. Maybe he had figured it was other things presenting themselves in a rare display. Possible that he could have just been oblivious by choice, too.

"Uh, I'm guessing you've got insomnia although I can't know that unless you tell me... You're dehydrated, borderline malnourished, you've lost fifteen pounds since your last physical but I don't know if you lost that from not eating before you went on exile or while you were over there or since you've come back." John glanced up from the paperwork. "... There was something bigger going on, wasn't there? It wasn't just exile, was it?"

"I thought Mycroft told you."

"I don't think he told me everything."

Sherlock sighed softly. "It was a suicide mission. I wasn't meant to come back. It was easier for Mycroft and his associates to send me off on a mission that I might have a chance at rather than facing other penalties for my actions with Magnussen. My life expectancy, despite that, was a modest six months."

John was quiet. It wasn't what Sherlock had expected; he had expected an outburst, really. Something along the lines of _why didn't you tell me?!_ and _why did you just leave if you knew that!_ but it didn't come. Partially, he was glad. Outbursts didn't do much for the ever constant pounding in his head these days.

"... So, when I asked you what you were doing after the work in Europe, and you said 'who knows'-"

"I knew. Mycroft knew," he added after a moment.

John blew out a breath and leaned forward to put his head in his hands and rub at his eyes.

Sherlock raised his gaze to the ceiling. "So, I couldn't tell you. I might have known, but you and Mary didn't. Better that you... think I was off somewhere, bored to death rather than actually... _literally_ heading to my death."

John's head snapped up. "And what was I supposed to think when it got back 'round to me that you were dead?"

"It wasn't going to." Sherlock said. "I made sure of that with Mycroft, no one was ever going to know. I wasn't coming back, anyway, so there would have been no point, and to cause everyone the pain again..." he trailed off, and shook his head. "No." He inhaled sharply, and grinned over at John. "Besides, you wouldn't have believed it, anyway, and if you weren't wracked with grief over it, then you would have spent ages trying to prove that I was still alive when I wasn't. Either way, it wasn't a good option. Because we both know that we can't do this again."

"You don't get to make that decision-" John stopped abruptly. He wasn't smiling. Of course he didn't think any of it was funny. John wasn't like that. But Sherlock was right; both of them couldn't do it again. He knew he was right. "... There's nothing easy with you, is there?"

Sherlock shook his head slightly. "No... ... sorry."

The word always got lodged in his throat at the oddest angle. He didn't know why, after all this time, he was still incapable of expressing basic sentiment. It was never going to be his forte. He was never going to be good at it, that wasn't him. But it was... hard. Yeah.

"Well." John scrubbed his fingers through his hair and stood up, fingers clenching into fists. "I don't know what you were thinking, well, I do, but your logic is... stupidly flawed, but... whatever choices you made, you're not the one who should apologising right now."

"Don't you go saying it now, I can only handle so much in one day."

John chuckled softly. "Alright. You got my explanation yesterday, so I guess it was-"

"Yes."

John met his gaze again, looking at him steadily. Sherlock didn't look away this time, trying to communicate, _yes, your apology was implied, no, I wasn't asking for one, no, I don't want you to say it now, so can we please stop talking about this?_ without needing to say the words.

John nodded to himself and stepped forward. "How are you feeling, then?" He pressed his hand against Sherlock's forehead, pushing his curls out of the way. "You had about a thirty-nine, but it's went down again."

Sherlock hummed. John's hands were warm. "I'm okay. Better. Not as cold. Whatever that is," he jabbed his finger towards the IV bag, "it's better than the sleeping medication I was taking. I didn't dream last night."

John removed his hand. "Uh uh. They didn't give you any more of that since I requested it. You slept all night, and all morning. It wore off a long time before then."

Sherlock paused. He didn't exactly go a night without some sort of sleeping problem - he'd had insomnia before Europe and he was pretty sure, no, positive, that he was chronic now - but a whole night of sleep without waking up or dreaming or having flashbacks? That was... good. Therapy had the same effect sometimes, but not usually.

"Uh... have you... talked about the dreams with Rhonda?"

"Who's Rhonda?"

"Y... You don't even know your therapist's name?" John sounded incredulous.

_"Oh."_ Sherlock frowned. "No. She's just my therapist. How do you know her?"

"I've had different therapists besides Ella." John shrugged. "I didn't have Rhonda, but I knew her. She was in the same building. She's nice."

"I guess." Sherlock rubbed his nose. "I've talked to her about them sometimes... that's what therapy's for, isn't it?"

"Yeah."

"Well." He shifted slightly. He wondered where his phone was. He wondered if Lestrade had figured out the case yet. He wondered if he was still banned from casework since he'd willingly gone to hospital.

"You just don't generally... share," John said shortly. "Especially not with strangers."

"I needed to talk to someone, all the psychological problems were getting to not only my head but my body as well, it was interfering with my work-" He stopped as he caught the look that John was giving him. _You don't generally share with strangers._ "... Oh." He was having a lot of small, yet important, epiphanies lately. "... I didn't want to bother you," he muttered.

It was only fair. John had explained why he hadn't called Sherlock, but Sherlock was still the one who hadn't explained himself. But he... didn't really want to. Was _that_ fair?

"Are you kidding me? You just said I'm your doctor and you didn't want to bother me?"

And apparently he was doomed to have to explain it, after all. "... You've got a family. Mary, Lily..."

"And you," John interrupted. "How many times-"

"Well, I wasn't thinking about it that way, was I?" Sherlock grumbled. "I... well, you know. The first night I came back I saw you and Mary, and Lily. You've gotten back to your... normal life and I wasn't a part of it, so why should I bother coming back into it and ruining it? Like Mary said, you have a family that you need to be home with, not off being shot at with me. I upset the balance, and with you and her, that normality is fragile at best."

"Normal is stupid," John retorted. "How many times have you said that? I'd take having you around over normal any day. So maybe we have to be more careful than usual, maybe I don't have time for cases or maybe I shouldn't be out on the really dangerous ones that we both love the most, but... tea, Sherlock. Coffee. Or you can come over any time, we could go out to the theatre, go to those recitals you like, whatever. Just because my living situation's changed doesn't mean you're not welcome into it. Honestly, how long is it gonna take you to learn that?"

Sherlock was a little... mystified. He hadn't expected John to be so... upset about it. From the weeks that had gone by with only texts as their form of communication of learning through Mycroft or Lestrade about developments in John's family, John had taken his explanation - as awkward as it was - and chastised him for it? _Lestrade said he'd be pissed._ Sherlock shook away the inner voice irritably, muttering "Sentiment" under his breath.

"Of course it's sentiment, you clot. Don't you know that by now?"

"... Not really," Sherlock muttered, sinking a little lower in his pillows. "Still not really my area..." he mumbled.

John sighed. "I want you there, Sherlock. We want you. We're tired and worn down and more cranky than, huh, than my daughter is probably. I'm stressed out over our financial situation, Mary's worried about all of us - yes, you too," he added sternly, "even though she told me what happened between you guys. We're having a hard time balancing everything, but what I said still stands. The two most important people to me are Mary... and you."

Sherlock didn't know how to respond to that. John's tone was serious, and clearly meant to drive the point home. And it did. But it was raw, and emotional, and so deep into territory that Sherlock didn't even know how to cover that he had no idea what he was supposed to say in response to it. It made his skin crawl. It made him so _nervous_. He _hated_ feeling like that, not knowing what he was supposed to say or do. He hated feeling _vulnerable_.

"... Okay," he said shortly, instead.

John huffed a laugh. "Well, that was easy. No arguments?"

"Mm, no. Frankly, all the sentiment's short-circuiting my brain," Sherlock muttered, casting a feeble - hesitant - smile towards John.

It was definitely a laugh in response this time. "Sorry. I know. It's not usually how we do things, us."

"No," Sherlock agreed. "Maybe tone it back?" he asked, being sure that he hit the right sort of 'teasing' tone. It was appreciated, the conversation they were having, but it did make his skin crawl. He was better when they were at the basics.

John grinned. "Yeah, okay." He sank back into the chair, letting out a deep breath. "Good."

In thinking that both of them wanted to get past the sentiment overload, Sherlock - _silently_ \- agreed.

It was good.

* * *

**A/N: ****The second part to John's explanation and Sherlock gotten to explain himself, too. Of course it isn't a cure-all, though; no such thing. There's still a road there, but the Watsons are going to be resolutely with him now. Nonetheless, future chapters are just as good, so hang around if you will!**

**Also apologies, guys; if you've been asking questions or having comments that I haven't gotten back to, I'm sorry! I'm in the middle of technical issues and am looking to switch laptops, so it's all I'm managing to get chapters posted! I promise I still appreciate everything you're saying, suggesting, or asking! If you have something you desperately need answered or would like to comment about, send me a PM, otherwise, I'll get to the reviews when I can. ^^ Thanks!**


	10. Try, Try, Try

**Trigger warning: morally questionable decisions and actions (set during Sherlock's time spent away)**

* * *

"So, this is John."

"Yes."

"I've heard a lot about you."

"Really? Good things I hope."

"Sherlock puts great emphasis on his relationship with you."

Sherlock sank down in the chair, tucking his chin into the collar of his coat. "Thank you, Rhonda," he said, pointedly, and looked at the painting on the wall again.

"You remembered my name," Rhonda said.

"John reminded me," Sherlock replied.

"I see." Rhonda handed him the customary cup of tea. "That's encouraging, to say the least."

"But unrelated to the reason we're here. Don't bother with another cup." He handed the cup over to John, which earned him a disgruntled look from not his therapist, but his doctor.

"You need to drink."

"I'm not thirsty." He tugged at his collar, tucking his scarf against his skin. He was, on the other hand, still cold, which meant that the fever was stubbornly hanging on. He had chosen to omit that to John earlier in the day in favour of going to therapy. He couldn't handle the inactivity any longer than he had already.

"You still need to drink. It's only been a few days-"

"I had coffee with my granola." Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John. "Good enough?"

John sighed, but must have deemed it acceptable because he took a drink from the tea.

"Are you managing better with food, Sherlock?"

Honestly, it was like he had _two_ doctors. And he had only just found out the second one's name.

"Like John said, it's only been a few days, so I haven't been plowing through take-away." Sherlock shrugged. "I had granola and coffee. I didn't throw up."

"Good, that's good."

"Hm."

Rhonda jotted down something on the notepad. She did less of that nowadays. Or maybe she had just had a lot to write when he had first started visiting her. Collecting data. He could understand that. "How have your nightmares been?"

"... Better, I guess?" Sherlock licked his lips. "I can't shake the sleeping medication to be without them. If I just drop off, I remember. Dream."

"Is any one in particular reoccuring?"

Sherlock paused, and shook his head.

"Sherlock?" Rhonda needled.

"No, it's just..." Sherlock spared a glance at John, who seemed too interested in his tea for it not to be a cop-out. "Uh, maybe some," he continued shortly, looking back at her. "Just... bits and pieces."

"Do you want to discuss them?"

His instinctive answer was _no_, but he'd long since bypassed instinctive answers when it came to invasive questions here. It wasn't that he ceased to be uncomfortable, but he knew, sometimes... it genuinely helped. And, as much as he relied on it, he really did want to kick the sleeping aid habit. It was just a habit. An addiction.

He didn't need that right now.

"They're just moments, they aren't linear. My first bounty... the victims... the fishing for details."

"So, your first mission for your exile. Your first bounty, you say. You have never elaborated on that one much."

"No," Sherlock muttered.

_The whole family was a threat._

_He hadn't been told why. He hadn't been told what they were planning, what they could do, or why it was necessary for someone to, so bluntly put, take care of them. But he knew his place, and it wasn't for asking questions. He wasn't here on a luxury cruise. To be fair, he doubted that he could enjoy the luxury cruise as much as he did the thrill of, not a case, but the chase._

_He was there to take down the occupants of one home. It was simple. It was set up as a tag team - or maybe it was better to say that it was just a duo job. Sherlock could have managed it on his own, he was positive, but they had someone paired up with him, someone named Victor. He wasn't a complete idiot, but Sherlock wasn't sure why he was there with him at all. Probably best not to ask._

_"Our objective is to take down anything that moves."_

_"Roger," Sherlock bit off sarcastically._

_"Do you have to have such a stick up your arse about everything?" Victor huffed, hoisting the sniper rifle to his shoulder. "It makes for bloody irritating company."_

_"We're on a suicide mission," Sherlock retorted. "Company isn't priority."_

_"Bullshit. We gotta make the most of the time we have left, right, Sherly?" Victor nudged him with the butt of the rifle as he set it down._

_Sherlock grunted. "I fail to see how it matters."_

_"Oh, we don't even know each other yet. Take me to dinner first and then you can- Oi, we're on." Victor gestured to the phone in his hand, and then the house._

_Sherlock filed on. It wasn't his first rodeo. Maybe it was his first 'kill', as such designated by other people and their groups, the missions he was enslaved to now. But it wasn't his first _kill_. He had killed before. Intentionally, accidentally, in self-defence and cold-blood. _

_He wasn't a saint._

_It was too easy._

_They had been told that there were four targets. Sherlock took the first, the gunshot muffled by the silencer, and then haste took priority. He and Victor went their seperate ways. The second victim took three in close formation to the left ventricle of the chest, the third assumingly met by Victor's rifle due to the popping noises from the other room. Sherlock pushed ahead, rounding the corners to edge out the back bedrooms, meeting up halfway with Victor in the hallway._

_"One left," Victor mouthed, holding up one finger._

_Sherlock nodded assent, adjusting his grip on the gun to swivel into the next room._

_Smoke burst into their faces, burning his eyes and filling up his throat with its sickly, thick odour. He coughed and sputtered and forced himself not to breathe. Smoke bomb? Homemade. So there were the elements of just what this family-_

_There was a _bang!, _startling Sherlock back from his foggy state, a cry from Victor and a thud, the skittering of the rifle sliding against the hardwood._

_"Sherlock, finish it," Victor barked._

_The smoke cleared._

_Sherlock was face-to-face with a kid._

_It was enough to momentarily stun him, that his target was a maybe nine year old kid. Fierce, taser aloft. Taser?_

_He went down with a jolt of electrifying pain, as hard as Victor had._

_Mistake number one: he'd hesitated. The first thing that he'd been told was that hesitation got you killed._

_But it was a _kid_..._

_John had a kid. John would have a kid soon. What if John's kid turned to be like this? What if something happened that Sherlock wasn't there to stop and John's kid turned out like this one, and someone like him would end up there to dispose of it one day? Because no, John's kid would never turn out like this, even after Mary's lifestyle, there was no way-_

_Another _bang_, wide-eyed shock and terror and even hatred for a split second overridden by those understandable emotions and a blossom of blood, and the kid hit the floor, unmoving._

_Sherlock was only coming back into himself to see Victor propped up on his elbows, Sherlock's gun in hand._

_Victor's gaze was steely cold, a glare, and he shoved the gun into Sherlock's chest. "Buck up," he hissed. "We may be dying, but we're not dead yet, and I'm not getting killed because of a jack arse like you."_

_Sherlock looked between him and the last dead target. His mind seemed to be moving too slow. His chest was aching._

_He inhaled sharply. Dropped the gun._

"Sherlock, oi!"

Sherlock jumped from the hand on his shoulder, torn between grabbing it to rip it off or cringing from the implication it surely implied. Kill, right?

But it was John. Just John.

Sherlock didn't dare to release the breath he was holding, afraid that the aforementioned granola and coffee may not be as lucky staying down as he thought.

So, he wasn't a saint. But he wasn't a murderer, either. Usually.

"Sherlock?" Rhonda prompted.

Sherlock shook his head, too wildly for his spinning thoughts. "No."

"These are still things that you need to talk about."

"No, no. Can't." Sherlock gripped onto the armrests until his fingers ached, and then let go. "I can't."

Rhonda was looking at him intently, John was looking at him with the concern that Sherlock knew all too well, and Sherlock couldn't find his lungs. The air felt too thin.

He stood up quickly, spinning around with a flourish of his coat to push from the room. He ignored both of his companions, although, to be honest, he didn't hear them if they said anything to begin with. He was on a mission - no, poor choice of words - he needed air, not the stuffy therapy recycled oxygen.

The weather was turning for the fall. The mid-October air was refreshing against his lungs, and he gulped it in greedily, bracing his hands against the concrete pillars next to the building. The cool air helped to bring him back into the present.

He didn't lose himself in the past, not really. Sometimes, the memories, or the nightmares, dragged him down, but he purposefully didn't think about their first mission because... it really had been hard. He hadn't been mentally prepared. He had gotten over it fast, given the lifestyle, but it still had been...

Hard. It had been hard.

Sherlock leaned his shoulder against the pillar, closing his eyes. He was in the present. His assassin-for-hire on-again-off-again lifestyle was done. He no longer had to think about it, or live in it. He was finished. Moriarty's men were gone - and he didn't dare go near those two years, especially now - and his six month mission was in the past. He had done things that shook his conscience to the core. But it was in the past. He was fine. It was... fine.

He was trying, anyway. God, he was trying.

He was somewhat surprised when John didn't immediately follow him out. He had been sure that he would have rushed out right after him, demanding to know what he had been thinking about, trying to make sure that he was alright. But, he didn't. Sherlock didn't know if he was more surprised or if he was more grateful. He just needed a minute.

He was three pulls off of an old cigarette he'd had in his pocket for ages when John joined him. Sherlock glanced up from where he was sitting now, cross-legged on the cement that let the cold seep into his trousers. "... Their tea really is good," he said absently, and blew out a cloud of smoke. "Not sure of the brand. But good of you to drink the cup I gave you. Don't want to waste it."

John slipped his hands in his pockets, nodding. "Yeah." He cleared his throat, glancing off towards the traffic. "Thought you might have needed a minute."

"... Yeah," Sherlock said, and took another pull.

John didn't say anything else.

The silence was heavy, but surprisingly, not uncomfortable given the evident breakdown that he'd just had back in the office.

Sherlock stubbed the cigarette out between his fingers. There was still half of it left. "I'll be okay," he said shortly.

"I know." John nodded. "I know you will."

Sherlock nodded to himself, and got to his feet.

* * *

**A/N: They're ****still fixing the mess that has become Sherlock's life, and that mess still does need attention. I apologise if these chapters are feeling a bit slow to the readers, but I feel that they're still necessary. A lot has happened between Sherlock and the Watsons.**

**Also, I will be posting a 'bonus chapter' on my AO3 version of this story. It will be a brief scene from John's POV during the moment depicted in his chapter. Due to the change of POV, I'll only be posting it to my AO3 because I feel I can differentiate better with the style there. It's not essential to the storyline, but if you want a little extra, and from a different POV, that will be posted later tonight/tomorrow morning.**

**Thanks and stick around for more!**


	11. Mary: Part One

Sherlock held his hands away from Mary, unsure how to respond, but too aware that it was a quote-unquote 'pivotal moment' in their relationship.

It was the first time that he'd been back to John's place since... all of this had started. And it was also the first time that he'd seen Mary since... all of this. Apparently she'd been to the hospital when he'd been there, but he'd also been unconscious for most of that. Now, Mary had more or less ambushed him as they walked in the door in a bone-numbing hug.

"_Finally_," Mary said. "I thought I was going to have to take off a shift to come over with John to see you."

"... I've been busy," Sherlock said shortly. "Well, recuperating... Trying to. Resting." He cleared his throat.

"I'm glad you're feeling better."

"Getting there," Sherlock replied.

Mary pulled away, looking up at him. "I know it's too late to say this, but I don't want you to forget about us. I don't want us to go on without you. I shouldn't have said-"

Sherlock shook his head. "You should have. It's good to know what legs my relationships are standing on, even if I don't possess the best management for... fixing the shaky ones."

"Still, I shouldn't have said that, I just worry, about you and John, going off to do all these cases-"

"You have a daughter." Sherlock glanced over Mary's shoulder. He wondered if someone was babysitting Lily, or if she was in a different room. His deductions were still off par; making the connections was still harder than usual. The toys in the sitting room could have been because she was home, or because John and Mary hadn't gotten around to picking up house yet. John's neatness level had fallen since Sherlock had lived with him.

"But you've got a brother, and John and me, and Mrs Hudson, all of your friends, so that's irrelevent. If you got hurt, everybody would still-"

"Lily's life is worth more than mine," Sherlock interrupted. "Clear- ow!" He didn't quite glare down at Mary after she'd slapped his shoulder, thankfully missing one of the bruises he still had from taking a spill the other day.

"No one's life is more important than anybody else's."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Isn't that hypocritical, for an ex-CIA agent?"

Mary sighed. "True enough, I guess. But that's a whole other reason in itself, with you bringing the cases back into the family-"

"You remembered where you came from."

"Do you have to complete all my sentences?" Mary retorted.

John laughed dryly, carrying in a mug of... tea, going by the colour of the water. Without sugar. Peppermint, then. Some deductions still worked. Some were just too easy. "Come on, Mary, you know he always gets the last word. Here."

Sherlock took the mug gratefully, sniffing at it. Definitely peppermint. It worked best with his stomach these days, although chamomile helped with the sleeping issues. He was living his life around tea. Tea and toast. Although Mrs Hudson had brough up lovely vegetable soup yesterday that he had positively inhaled.

"I know," Mary said, looking back at Sherlock, "but sometimes I think I'll manage. Besides, it's serious."

"I know." Sherlock blew on the tea. "You and John are remarkably alike, you know. You really are suited for each other." He curled his fingers around the mug and wound around Mary, traipsing into the sitting room. He was just about to sink onto the sofa, prepared to settle there with crap telly and the blanket that had in past years resided folded on the foot of John's bed at 221B Baker Street, when there was a familiar wail from the nursery.

Sherlock took a quick sip of his tea and set the mug aside, dodging back the hallway to head into the nursery.

Where Lily was, wide awake, looking, despite the tears-stained cheeks - and Sherlock would never say these words out loud - like the perfect little angel that she was.

It made absolutely no sense to him. A year ago, Sherlock would admit that he was not a kid person. It wasn't that he didn't like them, but it was just... a default in his own programming. Kids were tolerable, if they weren't screaming or crying or throwing a tantrum, and sometimes even preferable to adults. Kids were often more perceptive than adults. But kids... infants... _babies_... They were so small. Fragile. Breakable.

Sherlock broke things.

Common knowledge.

He didn't trust himself with children. Rhonda had asked him if he would have liked to been there for Lily growing up; he knew the answer was yes and no. He would have loved to watch her develop and spend the extra five months with her, but he would have been terrified the whole way. Now, she was almost seven months old, but when she was only a day? Even just puffing his breath in her direction probably would have shattered her.

Whim of fancy. He knew that it was physically impossible. Even so...

"Lily," he breathed, crossing the room in three strides to scoop her up into his arms. "It's been awhile, love." He expertly folded her into his arms, splaying his fingers against her back. "Glad to be back," he said softly. He didn't brush his lips to her temple as he might have any other day - he had a feeling John and Mary weren't far off - but he did allow himself to press his cheek against her soft hair, closing his eyes for only a moment. She'd already stopped wailing. She didn't cry often when he held her, which was... something in itself. "Let's get you something to eat, shall we?"

John appeared in the doorway. "All good?"

Sherlock ducked his head in a nod. "Yes. Not in need of a nappy change, and since she just woke up from her nap, she's probably hungry." He paused. "Although, I've lost track of her schedules and patterns, so maybe..."

"Nope, she's due to eat. We've got her on baby food now, some of it. The transition's kind of a nightmare, she doesn't like much asides from fruit."

"Mm, tasted the stuff. It's rubbish." Sherlock followed John back down the hallway.

"Really?" John looked back up at him. "When did you try baby food?"

"It was an experiment."

"_Really?_"

Sherlock paused. Relented. "I was bored," he admitted.

"More like it."

"That was years ago. I doubt it's changed and I don't care to test the theory again." He slipped Lily into her high chair, having to take a moment to get her buckled in. It had been awhile since he'd been here, dealing with all of these childproof things.

"Yeah, thank God I don't worry about feeding you now, you're pickier than she is."

"You still worry about feeding me," Sherlock replied smartly, going to retrieve his cup of tea.

_It could be worse,_ reminded a voice in his head. It sounded suspiciously like his therapist. _He could not worry at all._

Which was true, Sherlock reckoned, and carried his mug back into the kitchen.

* * *

"Ah!"

Sherlock gripped the edge of the blankets, his heart hammering in his chest, as he sat upright in bed. He squinted around the darkened room, which wasn't his own - John's. How had he fallen asleep in John and Mary's bed? The last thing he had remembered was talking to John as he put away the laundry, and then... he must have fallen asleep. He didn't know where the Watsons were actually sleeping, which didn't exactly make him feel particularly good about falling asleep in their bed.

Nevertheless, the nightmares had jerked him awake, in a cold sweat and adrenalin pulsating through his veins. Which meant he wouldn't be getting back to sleep, so he may as well... see if he could get his friends back into their own bed before heading home?

Sherlock rubbed the back of his head, unmatting his sweaty hair from his scalp, and fought the blankets away until he could stagger to his feet.

The nightmares weren't as reoccurring as they had been even two weeks ago, but they still struck with a vengeance. Making up with John and Mary wasn't going to make everything right. If only it were that simple. But he was grateful, for the making up bit. It did help.

He traipsed to the kitchen for a glass of water, stopping to do a double take when he found John and Mary on the sofa. It was a fold-out sofa. Sherlock wondered why he hadn't noticed that before. At least they hadn't been forced to sleep on the floor, although he didn't know why they hadn't woken him up in the first place.

Sherlock continued on to the kitchen, running himself that glass of cold water, and splashing some of the water on his face. He'd forgotten to take his meds yesterday, which explained why his sleeping was less than perfect. To be fair, though, he didn't carry all of the pills he had to or was supposed to be taking around. To date, the only people that knew he was taking antidepressants was Lestrade, the Watsons, and his own brother and therapist. He preferred to keep it that way.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock jumped, slopping water down the front of his shirt. "Bloody hell," he muttered, swiping the beads of water off the fabric whilst spinning around to face John. "Didn't mean to wake you."

John shrugged, rubbing his eyes. "There's only one other person in our house, and she's seven months old, so..." He squinted at Sherlock. "Why're you up? Thought you'd sleep all night."

"You should have woken me," he replied, fixing John with a look. "I could have gone home."

"You need the sleep."

"So do you," Sherlock retorted, although he would leave the argument lay. "I was dreaming, again. Anyway, I'll head out, so-"

"What? No," John mumbled. "Go back to bed."

Sherlock shook his head. "No, you go to _your _bed, and I'll go home. I won't be able to get back to sleep, anyway, so why should I-"

"Because you need the sleep," John interrupted. "You're the one who was just in hospital."

Sherlock sighed. "Really, John, it's a lost cause-"

"What's going on...?"

Sherlock looked reflexively towards Mary's voice, groaning internally. "Mary. I told you to go back to bed," he spoke to John, "now you've woken your wife up."

"I'm a light sleeper." Mary fumbled for the belt on her dressing gown. "What are you doing up, I thought you were asleep?"

They really were so alike. "I was." He wanted to sigh again, but he didn't. He hated having to explain when it involved things like this, even now. "I was dreaming, it's fine. I'll head home, so-"

"Oh, don't run off on our account. I'll make some tea." Mary yawned as she brushed past him to get to the kettle.

"Honestly, Mary, I don't need-"

"Well, we're all up now, so we could all do with a cuppa." She filled the kettle with water despite his protests. "Well, I'm making it now. Go sit down."

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest again, then stopped. He was too tired to argue. He was too tired to deal with finding a cab home. He wasn't going to call his brother for a car, and... maybe the tea would settle his nerves. It would at least get him back to consciousness enough that he could work on getting out of John's house; not that he didn't want to be there, but he didn't want to have to explain himself with the nightmares, either.

"... Fine," he grumbled, turning heel from the kitchen to crawl onto the sofa bed. He settled himself at the now wrong end, pressing his back against the back of the sofa. John followed him into the room after a moment. "Since when do you have a sofa bed?" Sherlock asked idly, nudging John's pillow with his stocking feet.

"The other sofa had an accident." John swiped his pillow aside, settling himself at the opposite end. Sherlock raised his eyebrows, and John continued: "Our old neighbor knocked over a candle, caught the sofa on fire."

Sherlock laughed out loud, startling even himself. He pressed his fingers against his lips softly. When had been the last time he'd really laughed, without thinking about it? He glanced over at John again, John's sleepy, sardonic smile, and had to force himself _not_ to laugh again.

"Well, she didn't catch it on fire," John amended, shuffling down to settle next to Sherlock. "But there was a burn on it, and it was past its prime, anyway. Found this one at a good deal..." He shrugged. "Kind of was thinking it would have been perfect for you spending the night, but you were gone by the time we bought it."

Sherlock hummed, resting his shoulder against the side. "You had a spare bedroom while I was still here."

"Sort of. It was making the move for Lily's room."

Sherlock shrugged this time. "Oh well. I wasn't going to be using it."

"Tea," Mary said quietly, interrupting their absent-minded conversation as she joined them in the sitting room.

Sherlock looked up. "Really wasn't necessary."

"Well, I made it, anyway. Budge over."

"Budge-" Sherlock frowned, scooting over on the sofa cushions. "There's no budging over room, John, you- yeah." He huffed as he settled back against the sofa again, completely sandwiched by John on his right and Mary at his left. "If we're all going to sit here like this, we may as well have sat on the floor. The cushions are ridiculously low when it's folded out like this." He took the mug that Mary offered him, handing it down to John, and then taking his own. "What's with this assembly line, anyway?"

"The sofa's low because you're not supposed to sit on it like this, it's meant for sleeping."

"And John's on your other side, so you can pass him the tea easier than I can, unless you want hot tea all over your bollocks," Mary said smartly.

"Mary!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You guys are really on top of it this morning, aren't you?" He sipped at his tea. Chamomile. "How are you so awake? You were never this awake when I would wake you up for a case," he added, glancing at John.

"That's because they were generally stupid cases at stupid times, like the antifreeze at three-thirty in the morning," John replied crisply.

"And Lily keeps us on our toes," Mary added. "We kind of got used to waking up at a moment's notice."

"Mmm."

Sherlock took another drink of his tea. Yawned. Continued the pointless conversation with John and Mary.

Fell asleep on the sofa.

Fell asleep with his head on John's shoulder.

Fell asleep with Mary slumped against his own shoulder.

Woke up with a body that was stiff, a crick in his neck, and an aching back. He was sprawled halfway across John's lap at this point, his head slumped against the side of the sofa, and John and Mary were asleep leaning against each other.

Sherlock didn't know which part was more amusing: that, or that John had gone paternal on him by somehow ending up with his hand against Sherlock's shoulder.

He groped for the blankets that were in a pile in the middle of the sofa bed, pulling them close. He breathed in the smell of John, and Mary, the Watson family and laundry detergent that was too familiar, black tea and hand soap and...

Dreamless sleep.

* * *

**Sorry for the delay in updates! My muse has turned against me, and I'm trying to coax it back. As far as the story goes, two more chapters and probably an epilogue. Sherlock's going to get some more TLC from the Watsons, and then we're back full circle to Holmes brother bonding. Stay tuned, and thank you as always! :D**


	12. Mary: Part Two (TLC)

Sherlock woke up again with a still aching body and a pounding growing in his head, the elusive fever slipping back into his body and mind. He sighed, burrowing his face into the blankets. It wasn't uncommon - it wasn't _good_ \- but it was still happening less than it had been a few weeks ago. Psychogenic fever, they called it. It was most likely brought on by stress, ranging from everyday problems like annoying people to nightly occurrences like his nightmares. There was an explanation, but that didn't change the fact that he still _hated_ it.

He was not getting out of bed.

Except he wasn't in bed, he was on John and Mary's fold-out sofa, sans John and Mary, and the flat was too quiet. He pried his eyes open to look towards the clock; it was ten in the morning.

"Damn it." He forced himself up, rolling over onto his back and then creaking upwards. His body was hurting from both the way he'd slept last night - and when had he ended up at the _right_ end of the sofa? - and the fever pulsating in his body. He felt too cold, and his skin was too warm. Where were John and Mary, and, even more importantly, Lily?

He pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead, traipsing back the hallway to pass John and Mary's bedroom and then the nursery. All were empty. By rights, John should have been at work and... or was it Mary's shift today... maybe it was double. They hadn't asked him to babysit, though.

The sticky note on the bathroom mirror was there to catch his attention, and it did. He swiped it away clumsily, squinting at John's recognisable messy scrawl.

_Double shift, asked Lori to watch Lily. Call if you need anything_

Well, that explained it. Sherlock let the note flutter onto the countertop and raided the cabinet for much needed paracetamol, and then abandoned the bathroom in favour of a lukewarm cup of tea. He ended up back on the sofa, sprawled out amongst the blankets and pillows. After all, John and Mary weren't due back until later and the sofa bed was growing on him. There was nothing better for a fever than crap telly and a lazy day, as much as he was loathe to admit it.

By one o' clock, he was regretting having left the sanctity of the sofa bed again to find himself something to eat. It had been leftover pulled pork, the kind Mary made that Sherlock loved and he had plied her for if she had ever asked him for a favour. He had known it was a bad idea, but while his mind was improving, his body was, as ever, a step behind the progress.

_Too greasy_, his mind supplied, and he actually hated himself for thinking that because _of course it was too greasy, you arrogant bastard_, as he scrubbed the back of his hand against his mouth. "A lot better going down than coming back up," he muttered to himself, and fumbled for the extra toothbrush that had never seemed to be thrown away from before his exile. He _really_ needed a new one by now. He _really _didn't care right now, though.

He wiped his mouth on the towel and threw it down. The displacement of air sent the sticky note from earlier flying. He made a grab for it out of reflex, and stared down at the tiny hastily scrawled words blankly. _Call if you need anything_. John's note had said _anything_. Sherlock wasn't sure what he needed, because there was nothing to help psychogenic fever or his stomach besides paracetamol and easing back into light solids. Did _want_ constitute a _need_?

Sherlock wondered, and his head pounded.

He needed sleep. He wanted company.

Namely, John, John and Mary and Lily, but wanting them didn't mean that he needed them. He was fine on his own. He could handle this on his own. John and Mary and Lily definitely couldn't help him with these types of problems. There was really no point on entertaining the thought of calling them while they were at surgery, because it wasn't-

_"Sherlock? What's wrong?"_

Sherlock jumped slightly, realising his mobile was in his hand and the call time was running, John's number on the screen. _When_ had he made the conscious decision to pick up the phone? While he had been talking himself out of it?

"... I'm sick," he said pathetically, rather than the usual declarations of how fine his health or mental state might have been. He'd already sunk this low, so why stop now? And if past weeks were anything to go by, maybe sharing wasn't... sharing with the people he trusted wasn't as bad as he maybe thought it was.

He pressed his head back into the pillow on the sofa. It was John's pillow. It smelled like him, and it smelled like his shampoo. Some things were beautifully predictable.

_"Sick how?"_ John replied immediately.

Sherlock parted his lips slightly to blow out a breath. "I think the more pertinent question is "why did I think it was a good idea to have a pulled pork sandwich?"." He put the phone on speaker and placed it on his chest, resting his hand on his stomach. "But the fever's back, too."

_"Oh."_

""Oh" is right." Sherlock closed his eyes. "I don't really know why I called, I think I'm still half asleep."

_"Are you still at my place?"_

"Yeah."

_"I can be there in a half hour, can you hold out 'til then?"_

Sherlock's eyes flew open, his surprised gaze lost on the ceiling tile. Hold out until then? What did John think was happening, he was half dead on the bathroom floor from nonstop vomiting? And better yet, why did he think he could just leave work because Sherlock called? He'd done that a few times before, for legitimate case reasons, and John had told him not to bother him. "... You don't have to do that," Sherlock breathed.

_"I left you a note saying to call if you need anything. You're sick, that's a good enough reason."_

"I'm always sick." What a pitiful excuse that was, no matter how true it might have been. "And there's nothing you can do," he continued, which was also only the honest truth.

_"Sherlock, most people seek out a doctor when they're sick."_

"I'm not-"

_"- most people, I know."_ John sighed, a sound that almost had a hint of laughter to it. _"But you're home alone sick, and I'm your doctor and your friend. I'll be back in a half hour."_

Sherlock decided not to comment on the fact that John was basically treating him like a four year old left home from school because they felt ill. It was with good intentions, and he found he didn't mind this time. The sentiment would probably get old fast, but for now, it was okay. It might have even been more than okay.

Even so, he'd completely passed out by the time that John got home. He'd dropped off some time in between ending the call and the half an hour, and then next thing he knew, there were fingers on his forehead and John was coaxing him to let go of the blankets because it wasn't helping the fever.

"... Ugh." Sherlock relinquished his grip on the blankets, feeling sweaty and chilled at the same time. "John. I feel horrible." Only his sluggish, sick, sleep-deprived mind allowed the complaint to slip. He curled around John's pillow and breathed in shallowly.

John peeled another blanket away. "You look horrible."

Sherlock cracked an eye. "... Your bedside manner is rubbish," he mumbled, and closed it again. He still heard John's half laugh.

"So is my patient's attitude," John mocked, draping a blanket over his shoulder. "There. I won't take any more of them away, but you know you're actually too hot even though you feel cold."

Sherlock mumbled an assent.

"Did you take your temp?"

"No." His words were muffled by the pillow.

John said something in return, but Sherlock's hearing was muffled by the pillow, too. He didn't care. He just kept his eyes closed and hoped that he would fall back asleep. At least, he searched for sleep until John's fingers brushed up against his lips, startling him back out of his reverie.

"Open," John said firmly.

Sherlock parted his lips slightly, permitting John to slip the thermometer under his tongue. He only just mustered up enough consciousness to make sure he didn't let it slip back out of his mouth, and didn't even notice when John removed it.

"Just a low grade," John mumbled. "Go back to sleep. The paracetamol'll help."

Sherlock hummed, mostly back to sleep already.

At some point, he was half aware that something cold was pressed up against his forehead, wet dripping into the curls pressed up against his face, but it expended too much energy to bother to respond to it.

By the time that he was roused enough from his unconsciousness to function - and that was only due to his body prompting him to the loo, inane human functions - the cold, wet thing was no longer cold or wet, and it turned out to be a compress that was now dried out on the sofa bed next to the pillow, the cushions still damp around it. He touched at it briefly, lethargy thick in his veins. God, this had to stop.

"Are you okay?"

Sherlock rolled onto his back, looking towards the voice. "Mary...? What are you..."

Mary sat in the armchair, her head propped on her hand. She'd been watching him, Sherlock could tell. It made him feel strangely uneasy. "It's five o' clock. Got off work a few hours ago. You've been asleep since I got home."

"Oh." Sherlock stretched slightly. The blankets were tucked around him too tightly; they felt constricting and sticky. "Where's John...?"

"He went out." Mary sat up. "Getting a take-away, someone ate the last pulled pork."

Sherlock laughed wryly. "It was good."

"But you regret it," Mary replied immediately, smiling slightly.

"Oh, do I." He rested his hand on his stomach briefly. At least it wasn't roiling at the moment, although it reminded him the reason that he had woken up in the first place. Untangling himself from the blankets rarely seemed such a tedious task. "I have been known to make questionable decisions occasionally." He pushed the blankets away, taking longer than necessary to make sure he didn't push himself too fast.

"Occasionally?" Mary repeated.

Sherlock grinned briefly. "Only just."

He stumbled off to the bathroom, running his fingers through his hair. Mary hadn't moved by the time he came back, but he begged off conversation in favour of grabbing a glass from the sink to get water from the fridge.

"You could have asked me," Mary called over the grind of the ice dispenser.

"The sentiment is received nonetheless," Sherlock called back, now over the whirr of the water, rejoining her in the sitting room afterwards. He grabbed at his coat, fumbling for the pockets.

"You're not leaving?"

"Not yet." Sherlock grabbed the pill bottle from his pocket, twisting the lid off. Not carrying pills with him notwithstanding, the antidepressants weren't something he could miss. They wreaked havoc on him if he skipped them, as much as he would like to. He was a recovered addict pushing pills again. Not out of want. Maybe it was necessity, but he wouldn't admit that taking so many pills pressed uncomfortably at the edge of his uneasiness.

"Do they help?"

Sherlock gulped back a mouthful of water, licking his lips. "Depends on your definition," he replied, screwing the cap back on and throwing them back in his pocket. He sipped at the water, and returned to the sofa. "... Sometimes, I guess. Good days and bad days." He set the water aside, and leaned back against the sofa. "I'm not really depressed. That's not really the point. But they're prescribed for PTSD, so as much as I'd like to go off them... not yet."

"You don't have to explain that to me." Mary tilted her head. "I'm married to John, remember?"

Sherlock laughed humourlessly, pressing his head back into the sofa. "God, we really are a mess. All three of us."

"You're getting better."

Sherlock nodded. "Slowly. The pills help a little, therapy helps more," he admitted, "and, somehow... this helps most of all." He waved his hand around the sitting room briefly. "Somehow..."

Mary narrowed her eyes. It was one of those motions that only someone familiar with her would notice. It meant she was thinking. It meant she was going to say something im-

"Is this my fault?"

Sherlock blinked slowly. "... What?"

"All of this." Mary shrugged. "The therapy, the pills, the PTSD. Is this my fault? For marrying John, interrupting the lifestyle. Is this my fault?" she asked pointedly.

Maybe he wasn't the best with friendship. And relationships weren't his forte. But he'd been around John and Mary long enough to know that this was... _past_ delicate territory. These were places that you didn't go. Things you didn't talk about...

"Mary..."

"I want to know."

Sherlock sat up slightly. He pressed his fingers into his palms, letting his fingernails dig into his skin. "Mary, I don't-"

"It's just a question," Mary replied flatly.

Sherlock shifted, unclenching his hands. His mind palace was giving him warning signals. Not now. Not when they had just gotten back to a good place. He swallowed. "... Why are you making me answer this?" he breathed, fingers curling into the blankets.

"It's good to be on even footing." Mary shrugged slightly. "It's good to know what legs your relationships stand on. Right?"

Sherlock breathed out slowly. It felt like breathing too deeply might shatter the illusion of peace. "Mary..."

He liked Mary. He'd never _not_ liked Mary, even when she'd shot him. He... liked Mary for John. She made John happy. That made him happy. They were... happy.

Would he go back to where things had been before Mary had come into the picture?

Mary was still looking at him expectantly. Given that there was no way out of the conversation less than taking off when he didn't feel like striding farther than the kitchen, Sherlock drew in a deep breath. Prepared for the worst. Slumped against the sofa again and turned his gaze to the ceiling.

"Maybe. I don't know." He stared at the ceiling tile. "Things changed when I faked my death. It's mostly my fault. The PTSD... But it's all... different. I don't think it's you, I don't think it's any one thing. But, together... I don't know." He loathed the words. He loathed the emotions. It was easier to be closed off to all of-

"Okay."

"Okay?" Sherlock looked up at her in surprise.

Mary looked back at him evenly. "I said I wanted to know." She held out her hands. "I love John. John loves you. Nothing's going to change that."

Sherlock was silent before turning back to the ceiling. "Huh. Don't let John hear you say that. He might start blushing."

Maybe the crisis was averted. Or maybe it wasn't a crisis at all. Maybe he was a bad judge of character right now. Maybe he was overreacting.

"Maybe you're just worried about losing us," Mary said out loud, startling him both with her words and her sudden close proximity as she dropped onto the sofa next to him. "Trust me, Sherlock, we want to know how you're feeling. It doesn't matter if it's good or bad. Just tell us, okay? We all love you. We accept you." She wrapped her arm around his shoulders, pulling him close.

"Oh, no-" _Hugs_.

"Besides, you got my dumbarse opinion weeks ago when I snapped at you, so you're allowed to retaliate."

Sherlock tilted his head slightly to look at her. "I don't want to retaliate."

"I want you to retaliate," Mary replied, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek.

"_Mary_," Sherlock protested.

"Oh, Sherlock, you may be plenty of things, but being made of sugar isn't one of them. You're not going to melt from a little kiss."

Mary ruffled his hair affectionately, and Sherlock found himself ducking with a small laugh more out of habit than conscious reaction. _Not_ faking it was more of a relief than it should have been.

The lock in the front door turned. Sherlock looked up expectantly. Mary followed his gaze.

John peeked into the sitting room a few seconds later, eyebrows twitching up when he found Sherlock and Mary looking back at him. "Hey."

"Welcome back, love. Dinner?"

"Got it, in the kitchen," John said, glancing at Sherlock. "I wasn't sure if you'd be up, but I stopped off and got you a milkshake."

"Mm. Sounds good."

Mary squeezed his shoulders. "Come on, we'll bring it in." She pulled away from him, getting to her feet.

"No, I," he pushed himself clumsily to his feet, "I'll move."

"You sure?"

Sherlock waved away her concern, staggering off the sofa bed. "I'm okay. I'm feeling better, anyway." He was forced to a standstill as John walked in front of him, reaching up to feel his forehead. "John, I _said_-"

"You're still a little warm, the paracetamol's probably just helping. Come eat and then go back to bed."

"I'm never going to get to go back home, am I?" Sherlock intoned sarcastically, dogging John's footsteps as Mary went to check on Lily. Theoretically, he could leave anytime. There was nothing stopping him from walking out the door, fever or no. He'd dealt with it enough to be able to withstand it. But as much as he jokingly complained about it, he didn't really want to leave.

... He did have experiments to get back to, though.

Decisions, decisions.

"It's vanilla," he said, having popped the plastic lid off the shake. "Why did you get me vanilla?"

"Because you don't need to be pushing past the basics right now, you know what happened last time. Besides, you're supposed to feed a cold, starve a fever, anyway. Stop complaining."

Sherlock huffed softly, reaching for a spoon. "I will complain, vanilla is boring."

"Vanilla is fine. Sit."

Sherlock gave John a sarcastic one spoon salute, sinking into the chair. He picked his way through the milkshake, sneaking bites to Lily when he thought Mary and John weren't looking. He reckoned he deserved the light slap he got when Lily refused to eat her own food.

He decided that his experiments could wait a little longer.

* * *

**For being with the Watson family is far more attractive at this point. There was some more much needed TLC for our loveable detective, more on his health and, no, he's not completely better but he's getting there. For those who like that sort of thing, we've got some brotherly bonding next chapter.**

**Thank you for all of your support! Continue to stay tuned! :)**


	13. The Holmes Brothers

"There has to be something I can do."

"You know, brother mine, there comes a point where giving too much becomes untasteful."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's my choice, what difference does it make?"

"Didn't you already have this discussion with John earlier?" Mycroft asked, reaching for the teapot. "I'm not sure that he wants your money."

Sherlock pursed his lips, watching Mycroft pour his tea. "I want to help."

Mycroft relented in pouring. "And that petulant tone is going to help you how, exactly?"

"I'm not _trying _to be petulant, I'm _trying_ to help John."

"For once in your life," Mycroft replied in a musing tone, tapping the excess tea off the spoon before handing Sherlock the mug.

"Not," Sherlock replied, "for the first time in my life. I am capable of gratitude." Mycroft arched an eyebrow, and Sherlock doggedly pressed on. "I am..." He paused. "There's just usually no one I wish to bestow my gratitude on."

Mycroft laughed dryly, sitting down opposite him. "Indeed." He looked over his mug at him. "Why are you so intent on helping them all of a sudden?"

"Why shouldn't I?"

Mycroft gave him a _look_. Sherlock was good at reading _his_ looks. He wished that he wasn't, but, well, a lifetime.

"Look, just because we've had a moment doesn't mean that I don't appreciate his presence in my life," Sherlock said shortly, busying himself with sipping at the tea.

"Big words."

Sherlock sighed. His breath rippled the surface of his tea. "Since when do you have so many opinions on my decisions? Oh, that's right. Since I was born." He reached for a handful of crisps.

"I'm just worried about you, Sherlock."

Sherlock felt the crisps scrape too roughly against his gums. He coughed, and wrinkled his nose at Mycroft's statement. "Stop that," he ordered, gulping a mouthful of his tea. It burned the roof of his mouth.

"Yes. Well." Mycroft tilted his head contemplatively, and raised his mug to his lips. "You've had a time." It was said uncondescendingly, and the level of the concern wasn't lost on Sherlock.

"... I have," he said quietly, looking back at his tea.

The silence that followed was unbelievably heavy. He resisted the inane urge to fumble his spill his tea just to have something to shatter the atmosphere. It was a tactic, something he had learned long ago. A lifetime, again. Although, back then, throwing dinner at Mycroft might have just been out of spite...

"What are you thinking?"

Sherlock glanced up.

"You're smiling," Mycroft pointed out.

"Oh. Huh, uhh, d'you remember the yams that we started a food fight with when I was seven?"

Mycroft huffed; it was half a laugh, half a scoff. "And I was foolish enough to retaliate. What a mess that Thanksgiving was."

"But it was memorable."

"Yes," Mycroft remarked. "Mother punished us both."

"She took away my chemistry set," Sherlock said. He didn't know why he remembered that. He did, though. "And your..."

"My novels."

"Oh, right, that dreadful stack of books. You were reading all the wrong novels." Sherlock laughed softly. "Best Thanksgiving ever."

"It was, wasn't it?"

Sherlock sipped at his tea fondly. The quiet was less awkward now, and he was lost in decent memories. But there was the present to focus on. That was why his brother was here, after all.

"Anyway." He set his tea aside and pressed his fingertips together. "What can I do about the Watson's financial status? I know I have money set aside, well, I don't really know where it is, but I know that there's a lot from the cases. Right?" He tilted his head slightly and looked at Mycroft.

Mycroft sighed. "If you're so intent on helping the Watsons out..."

"Why don't you want me to?" Sherlock interrupted, frowning. "You're awfully opinionated on this, even for you. You like John and Mary - I think - so what's the big deal?"

Mycroft sighed.

"Ugh, and there's that obnoxious _sigh_," Sherlock retorted. "You seem so long-suffering. Why the act?"

"Do you not realise what they have done to you, Sherlock?" Mycroft interrupted.

Sherlock stopped, halfway into a bite of a biscuit.

"You may not see it yourself, but the trouble that you've gotten into since you met John Watson? First the fiasco with your faked suicide, and then the events following your foolish stunt with Charles Magnussen-" He stopped talking and breathed in slowly. "All I'm saying is that the years have not been kind, Sherlock, and even less than usual as of late."

_You're concerned._ The words were on the tip of his tongue, but they didn't make it out of his mouth. Of course Mycroft was concerned; he was his brother. But that didn't make it any less difficult to try and process the current situation. As far as sentiment went, they rarely got to this level and twice in one day made Sherlock's palms sweat. That, or his stomach, and he didn't actually want to throw up on Mycroft today.

"... John's made mistakes," he said shortly. "But so have I. That's what... friendship is... compromise. Right?"

"I told you before: caring is not an advantage."

"So, now you fault me for caring too much."

"No." Mycroft paused. "... Not particularly. But it is a weakness."

"Well." He finally finished off that bite of biscuit. "Don't worry," he said, "I'll be fine."

"You're my little brother. Of course I worry."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Thank _you_, older brother, but I can take care of myself." He paused. "... I went to therapy myself. I knew when I had to."

"True." Mycroft sighed. "Do be careful, Sherlock."

"Always am," Sherlock replied. "Now!" He leaned forward; time to focus on something less emotional. "Back to the task at hand. My money."

"Yes," Mycroft replied.

They did not talk about their familial relationship the rest of the day.

* * *

He was asleep when his mobile rang. He was ten seconds away from complaining when he saw that it was the middle of the afternoon (sue him if his sleeping schedule was still shit, he was catching up on lost sleep, time of day be damned) when he saw the Caller ID flashing John.

Oh.

"Hello, John," he greeted, trying to inject his voice with a little more enthusiasm than he ought to have for being woken up in the middle of his nap.

_"Sherlock- Sherlock, you aren't going to believe this!"_

"Believe what?" he replied curiously, rolling over and curling further into the many pillows piled onto his bed at the time. His legs were caught in the blankets. It was cold outside, but Sherlock was comfortable.

_"You know my aunt, Polly- well, no, you probably don't, you always tuned me out when I talked about my family. Anyway, she's the one who died a few years ago-"_

"I remember," Sherlock interrupted. "Thank you. You went to her funeral. She was your favourite aunt."

There was a moment of silence from John's end of the line.

_"Uhh, yeah, I guess you do remember. Anyway, I knew she had some money but I never thought about where it went and they just found out that she had left some of it to me. Sherlock. _Me._"_

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. That was the way that they were playing it, then. "Really? Is this really a thing?" he intoned. "Not like that email you got back when you used to live here that said you won-"

_"Would you stop bringing that up?"_ John interrupted. _"I didn't believe that email, anyway."_

"Then why did you click on it? We had to get a new laptop because of you, if I recall correctly."

_"No, _I_ had to get a new laptop, it was my laptop."_

"Yours, mine, whatever, the point is-"

_"Forty-thousand pounds, Sherlock."_

Sherlock fell silent. Only for a moment. And then, arching an eyebrow, "Forty-thousand pounds?"

_"Yes..."_ John exhaled and then laughed breathlessly. _"Forty-thousand."_

"Well, that's hardly a drop in the bucket, is it?" Sherlock mused, hiding his smile into one of his pillows.

_"Are you kidding me? Don't you remember our whole conversation about my horrible financial status? It might not be your jade pin, but it's going to help. _A lot_."_

"Well, if you say so." He laughed slightly. "I'm glad."

_"Yeah, you and me both." _It sounded like he exhaled again, most likely still burning the adrenalin off, and then continued. _"It's not going through until the twenty-ninth, but when it does, I'm taking you out to dinner. All of us, actually. And then me and you are going to hit the pub."_

"You want a repeat of your stag night? _Really?_"

John laughed. _"No. Yes. I don't know."_

"Take a deep breath and calm down. If the money's actually real, it's still going to be there if you take time to breathe." John's excitement was tangible. Sherlock tried not to get too riled up; if he got too over-excited for no apparent reason than to share in emotion, John might have been suspicious. Best to remain calm, even if he was chuckling on the inside.

_"Right, right. Oh, I've got to call mum and dad-"_

"Probably should have been your first call," Sherlock commented.

_"No, you're my first call. Just- yeah, we're gonna do something. Don't be busy on the twenty-ninth."_

"We'll see," Sherlock said, although he would file it away in his mind palace under 'important'.

_"I'll drag you out of that stuffy old flat if I have to."_

"You used to like this stuffy old flat," Sherlock retorted.

_"Still do, actually."_

Sherlock was certain that his face couldn't take much more of the prolonged smiling. His cheeks hurt. "Go call your parents, John. Share in the good news. I'll drop by tomorrow if I get the chance?"

_"That sounds great. And, uh, Sherlock... thanks."_

Sherlock's eyes flew open again. "For what?" he asked slowly.

_"... Putting up with me, I guess."_

"Oh." He relaxed back into the blankets. "That's a ridiculous thing to say; I'm the one who should be telling you that daily."

* * *

"So, John's dear old dead Aunt Polly."

"It was either her or a lottery ticket, and John doesn't play those much anymore. Seems to have kicked his gambling habit, as it were. Probably for the best."

"You were going to set the lottery?"

"You told me to do what had to be done."

Sherlock shrugged. He turned away from the window of Baker Street to look at his brother, sweeping his eyes up and down his form in a quick deductive gaze. Not that there was much more to see in only a week, asides from the secret service meetings, brief protective custody spell, and Anthea buying a different brand of socks for Mycroft to be wearing.

It was boring, but they were details, and Sherlock was chuffed to be able to pick up even the most boring. His introspective eye was coming back, and his mind palace was slowly dissolving its locks, room by room.

"He seemed pleased with forty-thousand," Sherlock continued, running his fingers through his hair. "I wasn't sure if it would make much of a difference."

"We looked at their living expenses, as well as bank statements," Mycroft said with a small frown.

"Yes, but..." Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "I don't know. It didn't feel like a lot. He has a wife and a child."

"And, unlike you, brother mine, John Watson knows how to budget for a wife and child. He makes do now, and with your generous contribution, he will make do easier. Not all of us feel the urge to buy a..." Mycroft leaned over, squinting. "What exactly _is_ this?"

"The equipment necessary to splice and clone genes."

Mycroft straightened up, fixing him with a deadpan stare. _"Why?"_

"It's an experiment," Sherlock replied easily, waving his hand to dismiss the conversation like swatting an irksome fly. "Anyway, your help is appreciated."

"Oh, any time," Mycroft replied coolly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Seeing as how John wouldn't have just taken the money from me to begin with, this was the next best thing." He flopped onto the couch, reaching for the remote. "They won't figure it out... maybe it's for the best," he said shortly. He shook his head and jabbed the power button. "Oh well."

"You're happy," Mycroft remarked.

Sherlock glanced away from the TV screen, tilting his head only the barest amount towards Mycroft's imposing figure. "What?"

"You're happy." Mycroft pointed slightly with the tip of his umbrella, directly at Sherlock.

Sherlock scoffed. "Come off it." He looked back at the TV. There wasn't anything on that was worth watching, but it was better than trying to have yet another conversation with his brother.

"You are. I'm not blind."

"I don't know what gave you that idea," Sherlock replied airily, although, as he traced his fingers over the worn buttons of his television remote control, he was hard pressed to think of a time that he had been happier indeed.

* * *

**Ahhhhhhh I forgot about this story I'm so sorry! orz I've been on an anime/manga kick (if you follow me on Tumblr, you know.), so I completely forgot about the other stories I was working on! I'll try to get the Epilogue posted quickly to make up for it!**

**Also, a reader pointed out that they don't celebrate Thanksgiving in England, but since the Holmes parents are living in NA now, there's the possibility that the boys spent some time growing up in North America. Thus, the boys being able to talk about the holiday. ^^**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Thanks for reading!**


	14. Epilogue

Sherlock huffed for breath, hands braced on his knees.

John came to a stop next to him, equally out of breath, hair windblown similarly like Sherlock's. "Okay?"

"Yeah," Sherlock panted, waving his hand. "Where's Mary?"

"She's-"

"Not as fast as you," Mary said as she jogged up next to them. "Long legs." She pointed at herself. "Short legs." She leaned against the wall.

"John has short legs," Sherlock replied.

"Oi."

Sherlock laughed breathlessly, pushing himself up to full height. His body protested the workout, and his head throbbed beneath his eyes slightly. Better to run than be caught illegally at that crime scene, though. Lestrade was still hesitant on what cases Sherlock was allowed to investigate, and this hadn't been one he'd been invited to.

He leaned back against the wall slightly, just a shoulder against the brick facade. His eyes fell closed for a moment too long, and John noticed.

"You okay?"

Sherlock offered a half smile. "Yeah. Tired," he added, because he was. His full strength still wasn't back, but he knew the road to recovery was a long one. He knew from experience that it was not a short hop down the Health line.

But was alright. He was doing cases. He was doing experiments. He was doing food, and if he was still doing therapy, so what? He was more alright than he had been in months, _months_.

He let out a breath he wasn't aware of holding, and smiled to himself.

"We should get a cab back," John said, and Sherlock nodded.

He could have walked back, honestly. His legs were a little wobbly, but he could have managed it. A cab just sounded better, and a little more safe, regarding the threat they were chasing this time.

He clambered into the cab ungracefully, limbs getting tangled up in themselves and his own coat, and he flopped into the seat with a little sigh.

"Well, that could have gone worse," John commented, sitting across from him.

Mary filed in beside him. "It could have been better."

"We didn't get caught, it was fine," Sherlock said, fumbling for his phone. "Oh, that reminds me, do you have-"

"I am _not_ paying," John interrupted. "And no, I don't have cash, anyway, I didn't bring enough for anything except pastry at Speedy's. I thought we were going to your place."

"We are, we just had to make a pit stop."

"_I'll_ pay," Mary interrupted, and Sherlock grinned.

"There you go, John, your wife has tact."

"Oh, like you're so well-up in that department."

Sherlock's grin only widened, and he tipped his head back against the seat. He wanted tea with honey in it, and chocolate covered biscuits or grilled soup with tomato soup. Hunger. He wanted food, he wanted sleep. Company sounded good, and crap telly minus the exertion regarding yelling at it was pleasing, too.

"So, any ideas about the scene?" Mary asked, drawing Sherlock out of the current list building in his head.

"Oh, a few."

"Any promising?"

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "They're all promising."

Mary laughed, leaning against John's shoulder lightly. John seemed to respond automatically to her, leaning over to peck his lips against Mary's cheek. They were prompted into action by one another...

... and _both_ of them were prompted to action by Sherlock, he thought fondly, letting his thoughts wander back to the crime scene.

He yawned and shuffled back into the seat, running his fingers through his hair. He hadn't been lying to Mary; he did have promising leads on the case. But they seemed less important now, now that they'd taken off from the scene, and he'd probably get an irate call from Lestrade, but he'd solve it, like usual.

Because that was what he did.

Solved cases.

And he was good at that. So very good. Like John had first called him_ "brilliant"_ so many years ago, or Mary had called him _"amazing"_ after meeting him, and how they all agreed that they were drama queens and theoretically unhinged, all three of them. That was good. So was food, and sleeping without medication, and chocolate dipped biscuits and the smell of new car from a barely broken in cab.

Sherlock tipped his head back against the headrest, closing his eyes.

* * *

Mary rest her head against John's shoulder. "Is he okay?" she asked quietly, voice dropped to a whisper, and John rest his head back against hers gently.

"Yeah. Well..." John pondered Sherlock's sleeping face for a moment, the closed eyes and the ruffled hair and the shadows beneath his eyelashes. "He's getting there."

He definitely wasn't back to his usual self, that much was for sure. John was all too aware of the fact that Sherlock was rarely winded after a run, and that he never needed to lean against a wall for support. Falling asleep in a cab wasn't unheard of, after a long day, but it hadn't been a long day by their terms.

So, no, Sherlock wasn't back to his usual self. He was getting there, though. That, he was doing. By sheer bloody minded willpower.

John knew how detrimental traumatic experiences could be. Hell, he was too familiar with that, and he didn't even know what Sherlock had gone through while he'd been gone. It was something that Sherlock had never explained, and John wasn't prying there. There were so many things that he hadn't told Sherlock, regarding Afghanistan, regarding the two years... Even if Sherlock could just read it on his own, John wouldn't have been willing to share it verbally. There were just some things you couldn't talk about, even to your best friend.

So, he didn't ask, and he wasn't going to.

The point was that he was there if Sherlock _needed_ to talk, or wanted to, or if he needed anything else along the way. Or if he needed someone to remind him to eat (which he was managing much better at now) or sleep (and he could do that without sleeping medication half the time now) or take the pills he was prescribed (to be fair, that was one thing that Sherlock rarely needed a reminder on).

Or whatever. Whatever he needed.

John had already been doing a horrible job earlier, so he was still trying to make up for it. So letting Sherlock spend the night or finding a babysitter (mostly Mrs Hudson, who didn't mind in the slightest, or their neighbours) so that they could run off on cases together. It couldn't happen all the time, but he had to make as much of an effort as Sherlock had been.

"Yeah," Mary agreed. "It's good. I'm glad he's better; all he's been through."

"Yeah." John hummed, letting his gaze fall away from Sherlock's sleeping form. "He's been through hell."

"Runs in the family," Mary remarked.

John laughed humorlessly. "Through blood and bonds."

"Through thick and thin."

"Yeah."

Thick and thin, indeed. It wasn't easy with them, with Sherlock, it never had been and it probably never would be, but John didn't like normal (apparently), and he didn't like boring (allegedly), and between his wife and his daughter and his best mate, he was certain that it would never be normal or boring.

The cab hit a bump, and Sherlock jolted awake.

"... didn't do it!"

John blinked at Sherlock, and Sherlock blinked back at them with sleepy eyes, and a frown that slowly turned his lips down at the corners.

"... I was just talking to Lestrade," Sherlock said slowly.

John raised his eyebrows, and felt rather than heard Mary's stifled laugh, as he looked back at Sherlock. "You were just asleep."

Sherlock blinked slowly, and then exhaled. "Oh." He sat up slightly in a small stretch, and then slumped back against the seat. "It seemed real. He was yelling at me for breaking into the crime scene."

"Oh, he's getting premonitions."

"God. Don't even joke," John remarked, and Sherlock laughed a bit. "Go back to sleep," John continued shortly. "We'll wake you when we get back, yeah?"

"Mm, I'm okay." But Sherlock's head tilted against the seat again, and John was sure that he'd be asleep again in a few minutes.

That was alright.

Where Sherlock had his shortcomings, John was determined to help him pick up the pieces. Him and Mary, and everyone else in between.

Sherlock was snoring quietly within minutes.

John smiled softly and reached for Mary's hands. Only two of their hands were entwined in that moment, but all three of their lives were entangled enough that they were never truly fall apart. There was comfort in that, that Sherlock could fall asleep across from him, and that he and Mary could hold hands, and that they had a daughter to return home to after working a case.

Things weren't perfect, but flaws made for beauty, and for all of their mistakes, they had painted a mural of life worth looking at. With many more years to come, it was bound to be a masterpiece in the end.

John smiled.

He was looking forward to it.

* * *

**The Epilogue was slow in coming, but I literally had very little left to say (and I sort of ran out of steam for this story, ah!). Sorry for the delay; I got super into anime again (woohoo i'm back in CLAMP hell yey) but I've had time to rewatch some Sherlock and get my video back, so I finally got this Epilogue finished. I hope you all enjoyed the ride; I hope the requester enjoyed it as well, and I thank you again for the amazing prompt! Thanks for all the favs and follows and reviews, and I hope you stuck around to the finish!**

**Thank you so much~**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Thank you!**


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